Preussenlied
by Catching Tomorrow
Summary: When you represent the awesome nation of Prussia, life's difficult enough without a certain Hungarian complicating things even further. But through centuries of blood and tears, something just keeps pulling them back together whether they like it or not.
1. Magyarorszag

Bonus chapters added in 2013: Chapter Sixteen, False Hope.

Also added: Historical notes! Yay! (*Totally has not been meaning to add them since the beginning and has only just got around to it*)

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><p>Once upon a time, I had the idea to write a fic chronicling Prussia and Hungary's relationship from medieval to modern times. It was kind of stupid and crazy, but so am I, so I wrote it. It turned out to be more Prussia-centric (because Prussia does not simply <em>not<em> be the main character of anything I write), and this fic covers his personal growth from 1188 to 2000. I also add bonus chapters every now and then because I have an inability to let things rest when I've finished them.

The title, 'Preussenlied', was the national anthem of Prussia and literally means 'song of Prussia'. It's a bit pretentious so I wasn't going to use it, but it stuck in my head and every time I thought about this it came up as Preussenlied. So eventually I gave in and let it be the title. It's basically Prussia's story anyway, so it seemed to fit.

Hetalia belongs to Hidekaz Himaruya, not me, or I wouldn't be writing fanfics about it.

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><p><strong>1188 - Somewhere in Eastern Europe<strong>

When Prussia first sees the little brown-haired kid in the forest, he mistakes him for Lithuania. And, using tried and true strategies developed in the many situations in which he's found Lithuania, he attacks.

Thirty seconds later, his face is in the dirt and the kid is sitting on top of him, pulling his arms behind his back in ways he's sure they shouldn't be able to bend. Although the events leading up to this unforeseen predicament are somewhat of a fast-paced, painful blur, he's sure of two things: firstly, that if he doesn't let go of his arms then they're going to break, and secondly, this kid cannot possibly be Lithuania.

"Mrrgrffmr..." he says angrily, his voice muffled by grass and mud.

The kid lets his arms drop, grabs his hair and pulls his head back out of the dirt. "Who are you?" he demands.

Now that's a question. If it wasn't for the fact that he was too busy wincing in pain, he would've smiled. "I am the Order of Brothers of the German House of Saint Mary in Jerusalem," he announces. "Also known as the Teutonic Order."

He snorts a laugh. "You got a nickname?"

"You," he says, "may call me Prussia."

"And you," says the kid, mimicking his grandiose tone, "may call me Magyarorszag."

"Jeez, that's a mouthful."

"Call me Hungary if you can't wrap your brain around it."

"Hungary..." says Prussia, testing the name on his tongue. He always thought he had Europe mostly worked out; he wonders why he hasn't run into this kid before. "Are you a new nation?"

"Hardly. I've been official for..." There's a pause as he counts on his fingers. "...Almost three centuries now. But-" he yanks harder on Prussia's hair, "-I'm the one asking the questions here. Why did you attack me?"

There's no reason not to tell the truth. None that he can see, anyway. "I thought you were Lithuania."

"Lithuania?" Hungary sounds surprised. "I know him. He's nice. Are you at war with him or something?"

Prussia laughs. "Nah, nothing like that. He's just fun to pick on. Look, are you gonna get off me or am I just supposed to lie here and get crushed into dust?"

There's a moment of indecision, but then Hungary seems to decide he's safe to release. Prussia winces at the variety of new bruises he has as he climbs to his feet and gets a good look at Hungary for the first time. His hair is similar to Lithuania's - he's even wearing it in the same sort of ponytail - but his face is different. It's fine-featured and green-eyed, remarkably well-structured for someone so young. If it wasn't for the suspicious, battle-ready frown, he would've looked almost feminine.

"So what were you doing out here anyway?" asks Prussia, rubbing the back of his head where handfuls of hair had almost been ripped from his scalp.

Hungary looks for a moment like he's about to deflect the question, but then shrugs and says, "I was hunting."

"Really? Me too!" Perhaps this was an opportunity to make a new ally. After all, this Hungary kid was tougher than he looked. "How about we team up and double our awesomeness?"

The other nation considers him for a moment with folded arms, as though judging whether he'll be of any help or just hold him back. "Okay," he says eventually. "You can come."

Prussia gives him a wide smile and shoves his arm through Hungary's, using his free hand to point towards the horizon. "Onwards, then! To victory!"

"Oi!" Hungary tries to struggle free, but Prussia isn't having any of it. This new nation might be faster than him but he's certainly much stronger. He locks their arms together and takes off towards the woods at full speed, dragging his reluctant new hunting partner behind him.

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><p>An hour later, Hungary is stomping towards him with his bow in his hands and murder in his eyes. "No! What the hell are you doing? That's not how you hunt!"<p>

Prussia skids to a halt mid-charge and spins around. Behind him, the deer bounds away into the trees and is lost from view. "Eh?"

"You won't catch anything just charging at it like that!" He reaches the centre of the clearing and plants his fists on his hips. Even drawn up to his full height, Prussia notes with some satisfaction, Hungary is still a few inches shorter than him.

"What are you talking about? I catch stuff like that all the time!"

"What stuff? Lithuania?"

"Not just him!" protests Prussia, quailing under his steely glare. "...Sometimes I fight Poland as well."

Hungary sighs and rubs his temples. "If you're going to catch wild animals, you have to be quiet. Stealthy. Sneak through the trees and take one out with a single arrow before any of them notice you."

"But that's no fun," protests Prussia.

"Hunting's not about having fun! It's about getting food!"

"Your method doesn't sound like it works up much of an appetite."

"At least it doesn't let half of Europe know I'm coming from a mile off."

Prussia grins and makes a sweeping gesture at his angry little partner. "Alright, then. Show me this Hungarian hunting technique if it's so good."

Despite himself, Hungary can't help but grin back. He spins around and strides back off towards the trees to hide it, but it's there alright. "Watch and learn, Prussia."

It takes them a while to find a new herd of deer, since all the animals in the vicinity seemed to have been scared off by Prussia's charge. But Hungary is the picture of patience; he stalks through the forest so silently he might as well have been floating, making occasional gestures for Prussia to stay well back. He's happy to just watch the way Hungary moves, so smoothly and quietly, sliding almost fluidly through the trees without even breaking so much as a twig under his boots. He spots a new herd of deer and moves slowly towards them, sticking to the undergrowth so as not to be seen. There's a strange grace about him as he stalks his prey, something that makes it impossible for Prussia to tear his eyes away. His face is the picture of focused concentration as he crouches as near to the deer as he dares. He nocks an arrow, draws it and holds, aiming carefully, before letting it fly.

One of the deer drops dead instantly, an arrow protruding from its eye. The others turn tail and flee.

"And that," says Hungary, striding into the clearing to retrieve his arrow, "is how it's done." He wipes the shaft on his tunic and spins around with a smile so dazzling it takes Prussia a moment to put together a reply.

"That... that was awesome, actually," he admits. "But I still think my way's better."

Hungary raises an amused eyebrow. "Do you now?"

"'Course I do."

"Go on then, go and kill something. Get it first shot and I'll consider taking you seriously."

Prussia grins lopsidedly and tucks his thumbs into his belt. "Nah, I think I'll call it a day now. I've got loads of food back home."

"Why am I not surprised to hear that?" Hungary sighs, but it's not unfriendly. "Alright then. If you help me carry this," he jerks a thumb at the deer still lying sprawled behind him, "then I might let you come hunting with me again."

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><p>That is first meeting of Prussia and Hungary, but certainly not the last. They never set dates or meeting points - they just seem to run into each other in the forest, and those regular encounters turn into hunting trips or, as time passes and they become closer, just time to spend in each other's company. Hungary teaches Prussia how to stalk prey and aim properly with a bow and arrow and Prussia teaches Hungary about this new continent he's found himself in. As it turns out, Hungary understands very little about the world - he knows his people, his forest and a few of the surrounding nations, but three centuries is not a long time to exist for. Prussia is far from omniscient, but he likes to think he knows something of the world and imparts that knowledge onto Hungary as best he can.<p>

One autumn evening, Prussia is practising the new techniques Hungary has taught him alone in the forest. He still makes noise when he moves and his aim is less than perfect, but he's making improvements and Hungary's pride in his new hunting apprentice is enough to keep him working at his skills. He sees a dark spot in a pile of orange, brown and golden leaves and sets his sights on it; it's as good a target as any.

He stalks closer, trying to scan the ground in front of him and keep his eyes on his prey at the same time. Hungary always made it look effortless, but Prussia had none of his remarkable natural grace. _I could still kick his arse in a wrestling match_, he tells himself, but he's learnt that brute strength means nothing unless your opponent is intending to fight back. In a proper hunt, it's worthless.

He's only twenty feet away from the pile of leaves now, crouched over and moving as slowly as he dares. _That should do it_. He takes his bow from his back and nocks an arrow. Then he stands up, straightening his back like Hungary taught him, pulls back the string...

And, for the first time, gets a good look at what the dark spot amongst the leaves actually is.

He's so surprised he almost lets the arrow fly, but catches himself at the last second. He shoves it back into his quiver and runs over, all thoughts of stealth gone from his mind.

Hungary is not dead, as he had originally thought. He is lying in the pile of soft leaves, curled into a ball with his head resting on his hands. His chest moves slowly in and out in the slow rhythm of someone deeply asleep, and he's smiling. It's only a small smile, but it's so peaceful he wonders what he's dreaming about. The light filters through the treetops and the shadows play with the creases in his cheeks and between his eyebrows, doing things with the soft planes of his face that entrance Prussia.

Hungary shifts suddenly and he jumps back, suddenly scared, but he only mumbles something sleepy and unintelligible and rolls over onto his other side. As he settles back into silent stillness, Prussia notices that a clump of golden-brown hair has come out of his ponytail and is falling across his face. Before he knows what he's doing, Prussia leans down and, more carefully than he's ever hunted any deer, brushes it back behind his ear. He stays bent over for a few more seconds, a tiny smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

Hungary's eyelids flutter, and, quick as a flash, Prussia turns and flees.

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><p>A few years later, new feelings begin to make sense in the most horrifying way possible.<p>

In one of his cathedrals, Prussia crouches in front of the altar and feels the accusing gazes of the statues and portraits burn into his back. Reliving the memory is painful and embarrassing and makes him so guilty he wonders why he hasn't been damned to hell yet, but at the very least he has to apologise. He clasps his hands together so tightly his knuckles turn white and screws his eyes shut.

_Okay, God,_ he thinks, _let me start off by saying I never actually meant any of it. How was I to know she was a... a... a not-boy? She didn't even know herself! You couldn't possibly expect me to... to... _He bites his lip and sighs. _Is this as awkward for you as it is for me? Look, all I'm trying to say is that I'm sorry for my... sinful... behaviour. She said she had a weak point, and she never reveals stuff like that normally... I just had to... check. I didn't know what I was doing. It was an accident! I'll never touch her again, I swear! Just please don't smite me or anyth-_

A hand lands on his shoulder and he jumps a mile.

"Cool it, it's just me," says Hungary.

He forces himself to take a few deep breaths before reply. "Oh... H-Hungary, hey..."

"What are you doing?" she asks, staring around at the high ceilings and grand architecture of the cathedral with a slightly confused look on her face.

"Nothing," he says quickly. "Look, about... about that time you told me you were feeling weak..." She doesn't get it. He winces, trying to skirt the details. "You know, when I... I..."

Realisation dawns on her face and she laughs at him. "Oh, that. Don't worry about it. I know."

"You... you know? Um... how much?"

"All of it," she says. "I had an extremely enlightening conversation with one of my doctors."

For once in his life, he's lost for words. "Oh."

But then all her bravado seems to drain away. Her shoulders slump, her face falls and she collapses onto one of the pews, her chin in her hands. "I knew there was a reason why I was so much weaker," she says, staring at the stone floor as though wishing she could sink into it. "I'll never be like you guys. I'm stuck like this forever." She sighs and blows a strand of hair escaped from her ponytail out of her face. "Sucks, doesn't it?"

But as Prussia watches the hair float back down to rest lightly over one of her wide green eyes, her eyelashes making it flutter as she blinks, he can't quite bring himself to agree.

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><p>Historical notes:<p>

The origin of Prussia is actually kind of interesting. He had quite an unusual start to life. Back during the Crusades in the twelfth century, there were these German merchants that started a field hospital during the Siege of Acre because the Pope said that only Germans could treat other Germans for some reason. They called themselves the Teutonic Order and, because you know what Gilbert's like, pretty soon they got sick of treating injuries and decided to start causing them instead. Still not a country, by the way. They became an order of religious knights who raised hell in the Holy Land and ran around with lots of sharp pointy metal things in Europe for the next two centuries. And since they only stuck their sharp pointy metal things in enemies of the Catholic Church, the Pope gave them a whole bunch of holdings as a reward. So how did he end up becoming a country all of his own? Blame Poland. He was like, totally having trouble with these pagans called the Old Prussians next door, so he invited the Teutonic Knights to come and have a little chat with them. Since the Old Prussians were, of course, pagan, the Holy Roman Empire sent them a memo saying that they would be extremely interested in something in the other direction for the next fifty years and if something were to happen to those Old Prussian guys then perhaps it wouldn't be too big a tragedy. Half a century later, the Teutonic Knights had a country all of their own. Which wasn't actually called Prussia. It was called 'Ordensstaat'. But that's weird, so we'll call him Prussia.

Hungary's turn! She started out as a group of nomads called the Magyars who conquered the Carpathian Basin (basically Hungary) in 895. They were famous for being awesome archers (and you thought these notes had nothing to do with the chapter). Though they'd been nomadic pretty much forever, they'd realised that they needed to settle down and found a state if they were going to have any chance of surviving in a Europe dominated by powerful kingdoms and empires. They converted to Christianity to make friends with the Holy Roman Empire and actually got pretty enthusiastic about it. Her history hasn't been quite as eventful as Prussia's yet anyway, though it has been simpler. Nothing's ever easy with the German states, is it?

After this first meeting, Hungary and the Teutonic Knights had a somewhat rocky relationship. She invited him in to help with a Cuman problem she was having and he basically ignored her and did whatever the hell he wanted because hey, are you the Pope? Didn't think so. They also had a spat over who owned Burzenland (Hungary promised it to Prussia but he pissed her off so she tried to take it back, and they spent the next decade or so bickering about it. But then he went through hell defending it for her when the Ottomans attacked in the fifteenth century, so that was nice. In a really awful sort of way.) But despite their diplomatic disagreements, they were both pretty wild and oddly similar so I think they would've been friends, at least on a personal level.

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><p>Thanks for reading, and please leave a review!<p> 


	2. Things That Never Change

**1745 - Silesia, Prussia**

He always did love fighting. The way his sword becomes as much a part of him as his arm, the thrill of risking everything on your skill and your guts, the pure rush of adrenaline that can be gained from nothing else.

He knows Hungary feels the same. He wasn't surprised when she turned up on Austria's side with the bulk of her army behind her. In a way, he'd been expecting it. Ever since he invaded and annexed Silesia, he'd been defeating Austria and his little Archduchess in battle after battle, pushing further and further into their territory, and they had nowhere to run. And so, of course, they turned to her. They must've promised her something really special, because she's not messing around.

Her sword crashes against his, sliding down the blade with enough force to send sparks falling down to the muddy battlefield. He parries and aims a strike at her side, which is blocked and, in turn, followed with another slash. It's a dance, an elegant, deadly waltz where one misstep could mean defeat. Not death - this war is not a matter of life or death for either of them - but severe discomfort, great loss and international humiliation. It's as close to death as they'll get.

"Tired yet?" she asks him, swinging blow after blow at him. He steps back, blocking as fast as he can, trying not to trip on rocks, dropped muskets and the bodies of fallen soldiers.

"You wish," he grins, and kicks at her leg with his front foot. She's taken off guard for only a second, but it's enough time for him to turn the tide of the battle. "Where's the piano-freak? Hiding?"

"Currently... incapacitated," she says through gritted teeth, all her energy focused on defence. "But I don't need his help to defeat you."

"Of course you don't," says Prussia, as though this is a given. Austria was created to fight, but he was never much good at it. He had built his empire through sheer political genius and outwitting all those who stood against him, but give him a sword and he would most likely stab himself in the foot. "He wasn't doing a very good job of it before you turned up, anyway. Tell me, how did he convince you to fight for him?"

She strikes; at the last nanosecond, almost too quick to see, she steps out of the way of a blow he expected her to block and uses his moment of imbalance to swing her sword at his ribcage. He only just manages to stop her blow, staggering backwards as she advances on him, her blade flashing in the sunlight. "A few things," she says, her words punctuated with attacks. "More power. More territory. Less taxes. The usual. But," he's moving backwards now, their swords moving in unison, steadily increasing in speed, "mostly, it's loyalty."

Prussia parries her thrust, sending her staggering forwards. When she swings around to face him again, he's staring at her with one eyebrow raised. "Loyalty?"

"Maria Theresa is his Archduchess, but she's also my Queen," she explains. "She appealed to me for help, and so I help." And, as if to prove that that is the end of that, she launches herself at him again and their battle begins anew.

Strike, parry, thrust, block, strike once again. The fight is intense, far more engaging than any against a regular soldier. Hungary is different in many ways - older, more feminine - but she's still the little kid he befriended in the forest all those years ago. Not as strong as him, but faster and more accurate. He knows her style like he knows his own country, and that would be enough to win if she didn't know his style equally as well. He can read her movements, the minute changes in her expression, and anticipate her next move within fractions of a second. In turn, he finds his attacks blocked almost before he launches them. It's intensely difficult and incredibly tiring, and it's the most fun he's had in years.

It's so much fun, in fact, that he's almost disappointed when he spots an opening to dart forwards and knock her sword from her hands. She staggers backwards as it flies into the air and skitters across the mud, sliding to a halt too far away to reclaim. He jerks his sword upwards to rest under her chin.

She stands, chest heaving, eyes wide, shocked by her own failure. She's in no danger - Prussia would never kill his own best friend and she knows it - but she's lost. She isn't used to losing, and for good reason. Prussia makes a mental note to sleep for a week once this war is over.

He's about to demand a surrender, but then his eyes stray lower and he suddenly finds his jaw out of action. He isn't quite sure how it happened, but at some point during the disarming his sword must've caught on the front of her uniform. A large piece of material has been ripped and is hanging open, doing very little to hide what it should. Only one thought drifts to the front of his strangely numb mind.

Hungary is not the little kid he used to know any more.

Something hard and painful smashes into his face, jerking the world back into motion again. He topples backwards, eyes widening in shock, and hits the mud with a loud, wet _smack_. His hand flies up to the throbbing bruise rapidly forming on his cheek and he realises that his sword is gone.

Hungary is standing over him, her sword in her right hand and his in her left. "Who's the girl now?"

They've been over this. "Liza, you know the Holy Roman Emperor can't be a wom-"

"Not even a woman who just defeated you on the field of battle?" She twirls their swords in her hands and swings them down to rest under his chin.

"That was you," he points out.

She smiles. "You bet it was."

She's right. She's defeated him. She's broken his winning streak and quite possibly ended the war. There's no point in denying it. For some reason, the humiliation of his defeat, the cold and wet mud seeping through his clothes and the sight of her standing over him holding his sword, her uniform still rather immodestly ripped, all meet in his brain in a way that he finds quite inexplicably hilarious, and he tries and fails to keep the laughter from bubbling over. "Austria may be a pushover at war, but he certainly can pick his allies."

"And don't you forget it." She lifts the tips of her blades from his neck and, to his surprise, throws his sword hilt-first back to him. He catches it reflexively. "There," she says. "Nice doing battle with you."

Still laughing softly, he salutes her from where he's lying in the mud. "You too, Liza."

She turns and walks away across the battlefield. If she was telling the truth about him being incapacitated, and he can't see why she'd lie, then Austria's probably waiting for her back in the safety of the camp. She's going back to report her victory. The cold mud is still deeply uncomfortable, but he can't quite muster the will to stand up yet. The adrenaline's wearing off now and he's becoming aware of just how tired he is, and staying here for a while doesn't seem like such a bad idea. So he lies in the mud and watches her walk, sheathing her sword as she goes. He sees her notice the rip in her uniform and fail to tuck it back into place, and gets some amusement from wondering how Austria will react when he sees her.

Hungary is not the little kid he used to know any more.

Just as she's about to disappear into one of the tents on the outskirts of the battlefield, she turns back to him and, there's no mistaking it, she smiles. A wide, ear-to-ear, let's-do-this-again-sometime smile. He smiles back, and then the tent flap swings back and she's gone.

No hard feelings. She won fair and square. He allowed himself to be distracted and she took advantage of his weakness and defeated him. Old Fritz will understand. And she's right: Maria Theresa is her Queen as much as she's Austria's Archduchess. This isn't the first time they've fought each other and God knows it won't be the last. Wars fought against Hungary are almost as much fun as wars fought alongside her, if not equally so. They're on opposite sides, but that doesn't mean they have to be enemies.

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><p>You're so adorable, Prussia. I'm your author (well, fanfiction author) so I'm allowed to say that.<p>

Historical notes:

Okay, so the War of Austrian Succession was reeeally complicated and actually ended up being about a lot more than just Austrian succession. Some people could even argue that it counts as a World War (which would mean that World War Three has already happened and we're all still alive! Yay us!) because of France and Britain's squabbling over colonies in America and Asia. It was, to simplify, broken up into three parts: France trying to get Bavaria, Saxony and Spain into power in various parts of the Hapsburg domain (Habsburgs being, along with the Bourbons, the dominant European royal family) to try and break Austria's control over the continent; said squabbles between Britain and France over colonial possessions; and, of course, the battle between Prussia and Austria over the vital region of Silesia. (No actually it really was vital, it was super-productive, one of the richest Hapsburg provinces, and pretty, and it smelled nice, and it always remembered to pick its towels up off the floor and send Christmas presents in time for Christmas).

The war actually lasted from 1740-48, so when Prussia says she's ended the war he's kind of exaggerating a bit. He means she's ended the war over Silesia, which she has, though he still gets to keep it after they sign the Treaty of Aix-la-Chapelle. The War of Austrian Succession was also the first war that made the world sit back and pay attention to Prussia as a major European power.

In regard to Hungary calling Maria Theresa her queen, the politics of the Austrian Empire were notoriously complex and bureaucratic. Although they were technically the same empire, Austria and Hungary still had different governmental structures. The ruler of Austria was an archduke (or archduchess) and the ruler of Hungary was a king (or queen). You can go and look up her full title if you like but I'm not going to put it here or it'd be longer than the chapter itself.


	3. Wild Animals

**1754 - Vienna, Austria**

It's one thing to know that tomboy Hungary, that I'm-a-boy, I'll-kick-your-arse Hungary, is a girl, but quite another to see her in a dress and frilly apron with a broomstick in her hands.

"What the _hell _are you wearing?"

She jumps and spins around to face the window, instinctively dropping into a fighting stance. He smiles in relief; that's the Hungary he knows. But then she sees him and plants her hands on her hips in disapproval. "Prussia, what are you doing on the windowsill?"

He shrugs, as though this is a total non-issue. "I was bored. I came to visit you."

"You didn't think of telling me first?"

"I knew Austria would never let me come. He hates me, remember?"

"I wonder why..." she mutters, but then her scowl breaks into a wide smile and she holds her hand out to help him down from the windowsill. He takes it, because despite what she's wearing, this is Hungary. They're equals, and she's helped him just as much as he's helped her in the past. "It's good to see you again," she says earnestly, wrapping her arms around him.

He hugs her tightly and almost lifts her off her feet. She laughs and mimes hitting him, and he blocks for real because he knows she'll do it. "Easy, now. Surely there's a better place for you to let out all your pent-up aggression than on me?"

"What pent-up aggression? You're the battle-happy one, remember?"

"Oh, come on." He gestures around the room and cocks an eyebrow in disbelief. It's some sort of parlour, all fancy armchairs and carved coffee tables with a velvet-covered piano in the corner. And what's more, it's all so clean he wouldn't have trouble believing that no-one had ever set foot in here before. "You've been working as a _maid_, for God's sake. Don't you miss fighting?"

"A little," she admits. "But I'm happy here too. I get fed and looked after, and Mr Austria's nicer than you think."

Prussia snorts. "Why do I doubt that?"

"No, really. He's a little stuck-up, I'll give you that, but he's been really sweet to me the whole time I've been working for him. Which is a feat in itself, honestly, because I've made so many mistakes even _I'd _fire me." She sighs and looks at the broomstick in her hands as though wondering how it got there. "I've never really cleaned before, if you know what I mean? I mean, I've picked stuff up off the floor, but all this polishing and dusting and waxing... And that's not even going into making tea and serving refreshments and doing dishes..."

Prussia pulls a face. "Sounds like hell."

"It's not, though," she says. "It's difficult, but it keeps me busy. It's a little different to what I'm used to, but there's worse situations to be in."

He shrugs. "I guess so."

"Although," she continues, "I do miss being free sometimes. Not that I'm locked up here or anything, but I can't just do whatever I want. And it's so _stuffy_... It feels like I can't even move in case I break something."

Her voice trails away. Prussia looks at her despondent expression out of the corner of his eye, then reaches out and almost surreptitiously knocks over a glass vase. It rolls off its table and smashes, a thousand tiny pieces skittering across the floor.

Hungary shouts in surprise and drops to her knees, staring in horror at the shattered pieces. "Oh my God! Prussia, what the _hell _did you do? Now I've got to clean all this up before Mr Austria comes and-"

"Your turn," he says, leaning back against the wall and watching her frantically try to scrape together the shards of glass.

She looks up at him in confusion. "What?"

"Break something."

"Why would I want to-"

"Just one thing. Trust me."

For a moment, he's sure she's going to swear at him and keep gathering the broken glass. But she pauses with her mouth half-open, then slowly climbs to her feet and sets her gaze on a particularly expensive-looking lamp. She reaches out a hand and hesitates. "Go on," he urges. In one swift movement, she knocks it to the floor. It shatters with a satisfyingly loud noise. She stares at the broken pieces in a strange mixture of horror and amazement.

Prussia grins. "Feels good, doesn't it?"

Slowly, she nods, and looks towards a picture frame hanging on the wall with a new kind of glint in her eye.

Over the next few minutes, Prussia and Hungary get thoroughly carried away. Ornaments are smashed, paintings are hurled from their hangings and cushions are strewn across the floor, their stuffing trailing behind them. Prussia accidentally hits Hungary in the face with a cushion as he's throwing it across the room; it dusts her hair with white feathers and earns him a retaliatory whack with a throw-rug. The only thing that's out of bounds is the piano. Prussia approaches it and is blocked by Hungary, who won't tell him why. He is just not to touch the piano, understand? He doesn't, but the piano remains the only undamaged thing in the room.

By the time they collapse, exhausted and slightly red in the face, onto the mess of cushions on the floor, Hungary is laughing out loud. "You're right," she says, catching her breath. "That did feel good."

"Told you so," he says.

She opens her mouth again, but her expression freezes before she can speak. They fall silent; with a sudden jolt of panic, Prussia hears footsteps coming down the hallway outside.

"Hide!" she hisses, whacking him with a cushion until he can scramble to his feet. Their rampage of destruction ruined most of the previously existing hiding places; without more than a second's thought, Prussia hurls himself under the piano and peers out from under its black velvet covering.

Hungary has only just brushed the feathers off her dress when the door opens and Austria walks in. "Oh my... Hungary, what in God's name happened here?"

"It was..." _Come on, think on your feet! You can do it! _"Wild animals."

There's a confused pause. "Wild animals?"

"Yes," she says, gaining confidence. "I was cleaning in here and I opened the window for some fresh air, and the next thing I know there's a squirrel in the room! I managed to chase it out, but not before it... well, before it did this." She gestures to the wreckage scattered around the parlour.

"A _squirrel_ did _this_?" clarifies Austria.

"It... it was a whole family of them."

Prussia isn't sure whether Austria believes her or not, but he sighs anyway and says, "Very well, then. Well done for chasing them out, but perhaps try not to open windows widely enough to permit access to... unwanted guests in the future."

"I will," she says, bowing her head.

"I trust you'll have all this cleaned up before I need to use this room next?"

"Of course, sir."

"It's a pity so much got smashed... Some of the ornaments in this room were very expensive. But what is done is done, I suppose. Miss Hungary?" he asks suddenly.

"Yes?"

"Would you mind if I used the piano while you start cleaning up? I don't want to disturb you."

Prussia expects her to come up with an excuse. To tell him that yes, it would disturb her, or that was what she was planning on cleaning next, or even that the squirrels had broken it somehow. But she just bobs a curtsey and says, "Of course not, Mr Austria. Go right ahead."

Horrified, Prussia pulls his head back under the velvet covering as Austria thanks Hungary and approaches the piano. To his utter relief, Austria does not whip the covering off and reveal his hiding place to the world. He pushes it up just enough to reach the keyboard and the music stand, leaving Prussia praying silently right next to his shoes on the pedals.

And then the music begins. Prussia has very little interest in music - he knows some Bach, but that's about it - but even he has to admit that it's alright. Perhaps a little more than alright. He'll never say it's good - not when Austria's the one playing it - but there are far worse things to listen to when trapped under a piano and trespassing in someone else's house. He even manages to relax a little, which is difficult considering the hard tiles are making his joints sore and he can't risk moving in case he makes a noise.

But then other shoes join Austria's underneath the piano bench. Little cloth slippers, tied with ribbons and poking out from under heavy green skirts. Hungary simply sits there, her broomstick nowhere in sight, and listens quietly to Austria's music. He doesn't tell her to get back to work - quite the opposite, in fact. As Prussia risks a look further out from under the covering, he sees him take his eyes off the keys and glance at her with an almost nervous smile. And Hungary smiles back.

From that moment on, the music isn't calm and relaxing any more. It just makes him feel sick.

Almost half an hour later, when Prussia's seriously debating just standing up, stretching his cramped muscles and daring Austria to question his right to be under his piano, the music fades away and stops.

"That was beautiful, Mr Austria," says Hungary quietly.

"That's very kind of you, Miss Hungary," he replies. "Anyway, you should probably get back to cleaning; I daresay this room might take a while. I'm very sorry for disturbing you."

"Oh, no! I don't mind, really!"

"No, I really must get back to work. But thank you for... for being my audience. I really do appreciate it."

Hungary smiles and nods her head in answer, and finally - _finally_ - Austria leaves.

Prussia scrambles out from under the piano and stretches his muscles out with a grimace of pain. "Hungary! What the hell was that?"

"What was what?" she asks.

"Letting him do that! You knew I was under there! He could've found me!"

She shrugs. "I like listening to him play."

Something unpleasant lurches in the depths of Prussia's stomach. "So? You can listen to him play all the time, he barely does anything else." She nods absently, scanning the room. Austria had a point - Prussia dared say it would take a while as well. "You want me to stay and help a bit? I mean, I was the one who-"

"No, you should go," she says. "It's not worth the risk. I don't mind cleaning it all up, anyway."

They stand there in silence for a moment, looking at the smashed glass and porcelain, the feathers strewn across the room, the shattered picture frames and trampled tablecloths. And, at the utter ridiculousness of the situation, Prussia can't help but laugh.

"It's not funny!" Hungary punches him on the arm, but he can't stop now. Soon she's snorting with giggles as well, and they're both clinging to each other and laughing so hard they can barely breathe.

"I mean it," she says, after their laughter has faded away as quickly as it came. "You need to get out of here."

"Okay, okay." He opens the window again and scrambles up onto the sill, dropping down into the garden on the other side. "You sure you don't want me to-"

"Go! Trust me, Austria'll throw a fit if he finds you here."

Prussia doesn't know quite why he does it. Perhaps it's the mention of Austria's name that makes his blood boil. Perhaps it's the memory of them sitting next each other as he played his stupid classical piano crap, or maybe it's just that her beauty hits his eyes in just the right way as they look at each other over the windowsill.

But, before she can react, he leans forward and kisses her.

It only lasts for a second before he grins at her, turns and runs away into the trees, glancing back over his shoulder to see her still standing frozen, the hand over her mouth not quite enough to hide her smile.

* * *

><p>Historical notes:<p>

Not much here. Hungary in 1754 was in a major economic decline; the Hapsburgs, who had become hereditary monarchs of Hungary, began to bring in Slovaks, Serbs, Croats, Germans and Jews to populate and farm parts of the country that had been almost completely deserted after Ottoman rule. Hungary's population tripled after the first half of the eighteenth century, but only forty percent of citizens were Magyars. Poor farming techniques led to loss of grain, roads were badly maintained, living standards declined and people mostly abandoned money in favour of bartering. She's in a pretty poor state and almost completely reliant on Austria.

Prussia, meanwhile, is having a wonderful time. Frederick the Great, known to us as Old Fritz, is on the throne and Europe is taking notice of this new Baltic empire. Fritz was possibly one of the greatest military minds ever (incidentally, Napoleon Bonaparte visited his tomb in 1807 and said, "Gentlemen, if this man were still alive I would not be here.") and strategically invaded and conquered to connect and strengthen Prussia territory. Industries were cultivated, economies grown, and compulsory education introduced. Everything is going swimmingly.


	4. More Than Nice

**1867 - Budapest, Hungary**

Hungary's new house is bigger than he expected, to the point where he wonders how much of it was paid for by Austria.

The door is unlocked, so he lets himself in.

To his pleasure, the hallway looks nothing like Austria's. The wooden floors, unpainted walls and tapestries depicting scenes of battle are far too masculine for his tastes. Two suits of armour stand guard by the door, watching Prussia as he calls out, "Oi, Liza! You there?"

A voice drifts down from the upstairs landing. "Go away!"

Her location confirmed, Prussia runs up the wrought-iron staircase, taking the steps three at a time. It takes him a few bad guesses and wrong turns, but eventually he finds her.

She's standing in what's obviously her bedroom, judging by the four-poster bed and vanity table. Her clothes, he notes, are not all over the floor, but packed into two large trunks in the corner of her room. Perhaps she picked up something working as Austria's maid after all. Her back is to him, but he can still see the simple but well-cut dress she's wearing. Even he has to admit it looks good on her.

"I thought I told you to go away," she says softly, not turning around.

He leans against the doorframe, surveying the room. "You tell me to go away all the time."

"This time I mean it."

"Why? Are you pissed at me over the whole Austro-Prussian war thing?" She's never held his wars against him before. He fights Austria all the time; he can't help it. It's just what he does. She's never refused to talk to him over it before.

"It's not that," she says impatiently. "Look, I just want to be alone, okay?"

He's about to make some retort, but when she turns to look at him, he notices her puffy, bloodshot eyes and the tear tracks down her face with a sickening jolt. "Hey, are you okay?"

"What do you think, idiot?" she snaps, slamming her trunk shut in a manner that suggests it has done her a great personal wrong.

"What's the matter?" he asks, suddenly concerned. His harsh, abrasive demeanour melts away as he takes in her packed belongings and her wet eyes, both pieces of some terrible jigsaw puzzle that he can't make fit and isn't sure he wants to.

She looks him dead in the eye and says, "I'm marrying Austria."

And, just like that, Prussia's entire world stops.

"What." It's a flat, empty what, devoid of emotion.

"We're unifying," she clarifies. "We won't be Austria and Hungary any more. We'll be Austria-Hungary. One and the same."

"But... _why_?" For some reason, that seems to be the one question that falls from his mouth. Why Austria? Why the clean, polite piano-freak with the perfectly tailored suits and the soft hands that obviously haven't seen a day's work in their lives? "Why him?"

"For one thing, it's not like I have a choice," she says, fastening her trunk shut and dragging it to the door. Somewhere deep down Prussia knows the polite thing to do would be to help her, but he's too shocked to even think of moving. "Our leaders are making us do it. Apparently it's best for both of us. And for another," she straightens up and spins to face him with her arms crossed, and he knows the look on her face means trouble. "Why not him? I've spent years living with him and he's never been anything but kind to me. He's a gentleman, unlike some of us." The tone of her voice leaves him with no doubt as to who she means. "I've been spending most of my life stomping around in the forest covered in mud and blood and sweat. But... I'm not like the rest of you. I've been thinking... perhaps I'm not supposed to do that."

The words come so quickly they almost surprise him. "Stop talking like a girl, Liza."

"But I _am _a girl! Don't you see? What if I've been wrong this whole time? What if I'm supposed to wear dresses and entertain guests and be looked after? Isn't that what girls are meant to do?"

She looks uncertain as she speaks, as though aware of how wrong she sounds. Prussia can barely comprehend what she's saying. What happened to the old Hungary? The one that swore she could kick your arse no matter what gender she happened to be? The one that practised swordplay, went hunting and rolled around in the dirt with him? The Hungary standing in front of him is an entirely new version, and he doesn't like it.

"Don't say that," he says. "That's not what you're meant to do."

"How do you know what I'm meant to do?" she snaps, suddenly hostile again. "This isn't your life, Gil, it's mine. What if I want to be a lady for once? What if I'm sick of fighting and hunting and playing in the mud? It's not your decision, so just shut your mouth and leave me alone!"

She's crying again now, and the way that her voice breaks in the last sentence makes her sound weak and scared rather than angry. Before he knows what he's doing, Prussia steps forwards and gathers her up into his arms. She buries her head in his shoulder and screams, her tears soaking his shirt as she sobs and wails and beats her fists against his chest. He just holds her tightly and strokes her hair, whispering comforting nonsense into her ear. They stay like that for a long time, until Hungary's tears turn to dry, wracking sobs and her screams begin to peter out, and they stand there in each other's arms for even longer after that. She feels smaller than he remembers, more delicate, as though he could pick her up with one arm and carry her to a place where Austria would never find her. The thought is tempting.

"Sorry," she sniffs, raising her head and looking up at him. "I ruined your shirt."

He laughs, soft and quiet. "Since when did I ever care about fashion?"

She smiles at that. It's a weak, tear-stained smile, but a smile all the same. "I don't care about fashion either."

"Not even all the pretty dresses you'll get from Austria?" he teases.

"Not even them. You want to hear a secret?"

"Yeah?"

"I hate dresses. You can't run without tripping over them and I haven't found a single corset that I can actually _breathe _in. They're just blatantly pointless and unnecessary. I look much better without them."

He laughs again, and catches her eyes almost by accident. As always, they surprise him with their complete and utter greenness. He's never seen quite that shade on anyone before, and he's seen a lot of people. "I don't know, I reckon you'd look nice in the right one."

"Just nice?" she asks, not taking her eyes away from his.

"More than nice."

"How much more?"

And, as her face inches towards his, he sees what she's doing. His heartrate almost doubles as she tilts her head up, her green eyes still looking deeply into his red ones with just a hint of playfulness that contrasts with the puffiness still left over from all the crying. She's playing a game, a desperate, dangerous game that serves no purpose other than to take her mind off her future, and Prussia finds himself eager to play along. "Devastatingly more," he breathes. "More than Austria deserves." And, he realises, it's true. Austria doesn't deserve her. She's amazing and beautiful and perfect in far more ways than his stupid ballrooms and banquets and piano concertos, and the thought of losing her to someone like him makes him sick.

"What about you?" Her nose is almost touching his now, a tiny smile playing about her lips.

"I," he grins back, "have always enjoyed taking what Austria wants."

It's hardly a love poem, but he knows he must've said enough when she stands on her tiptoes and presses her lips to his. He kisses her back as hard as he can, one arm wrapped firmly around her waist and the other hand cupping her face as though afraid of it slipping away through his fingers. Her arms snake around his neck and her fingers tangle themselves in his hair. Prussia's mind is blissfully empty, content to sit back, enjoy the experience and not bother with coming up with any coherent thoughts at all. He clutches her to him as tightly as he can as though that might protect her from what lies ahead, and she tries to melt into him, to become his instead of Austria's, to lose herself so thoroughly in the heat and the passion of the moment that no-one will ever be able to find her again.

Through a haze of bliss and ecstasy, he becomes aware of her fingers fumbling with the buttons of his shirt. He doesn't hesitate to follow suit, tearing blindly at ribbons and eyelets until her dress falls from her shoulders and lands in a pile at her feet. She was right; she does look better without it. She breaks the kiss for just a moment, moving her mouth off to the side to gasp for air, but he catches her lips in his again before she has time to take more than one breath. Surely oxygen isn't as important as the taste of her and the feel of her and the way she overwhelms every one of his senses in a way that makes him dizzy and exhilarated and _alive._

Then his shirt is gone, hurled across the room to lie dejected in a corner along with their inhibitions and reservations, and her fingers are tugging impatiently at his belt buckle. He finds himself cursing these stupid new women's fashions as seemingly endless layers of petticoats and padded shifts are thrown to one side. He wraps the strings of her corset around his hands and pulls her down onto the bed with him, tumbling onto the mattress in a such a tangle of arms and legs that he can no longer tell which are hers and which are his, and he finds he doesn't care.

* * *

><p>The next morning, Prussia wakes up before he opens his eyes. Something is amiss; the pillow is softer than his own, and the texture of the sheets feels different. It is, however, the realisation that the warmth he can feel is coming from the woman curled in his arms that sends everything flooding back to him.<p>

He smiles lazily, presses his face into her hair and lets its flowery scent sing him back to sleep.

When he wakes up for the second time, Hungary is gone.

* * *

><p>Historical notes:<p>

Austria and Hungary were united in 1867 into a single nation after the Austro-Hungarian Compromise. The union was no more romantic than the name. Oh, and this is all Prussia's fault.

After Austria was completely defeated by guess who in the 1866 Austro-Prussian War, he lost his position as the leading German state, had a bunch of territories absorbed into the Prussian empire and got laughed at at dinner parties all over Europe. The government realised that the Austrian state needed to redefine itself in order to maintain power, which is important when you're trying to control a bunch of ethnically-distinct constituent countries who always have revolution hovering somewhere around their to-do list. Hungary was wondering if it wouldn't be a good idea to try and go it alone at some point in the future, so Emperor Franz Joseph I of Austria proposed the suggestion of a dual-monarchy. There was a lot of debate, but the Hungarian government eventually decided that an equal union with Austria, a more modernised, industralised state, was preferable. And thus Austria-Hungary was created.


	5. The End of an Era

**Another extra chapter ^_^**

* * *

><p><strong>1871 - Brandenburg-Prussia<strong>

It's deep into autumn now, but this particular evening still retains some of its summer warmth. Prussia and Brandenburg wear only light coats as they sit on the side of the pond behind Brandenburg's house and skip stones across the water. Brandenburg's stones skip further, as they always have, but Prussia's make bigger splashes, and he regards that as a win.

The silence is neither awkward or uncomfortable, but Prussia breaks it anyway. "You said you wanted to talk to me about something?"

Brandenburg stiffens, then takes his time choosing his next stone. "Yes," he says, when he can put it off no longer. "I did."

Prussia throws his last stone and turns to his partner with arms folded. "No time like the present."

Brandenburg sighs. "It's about Ludwig."

Of course. Everything is about Ludwig these days. Ludwig, the little boy who Hesse found unconscious in the woods and brought back to show the other German states. Ludwig, who turned out to be some sort of nation, though no-one could work out where he represented and he had no memories to help them. Ever since they had realised that he represented all and none of them, that he meant both their continued existence and their demise, the mood of the German states has changed significantly. Prussia doesn't have to ask what Brandenburg is about to say. He's not the first of them and he won't be the last.

"I just think my time is up," he continues. "I'm not needed any more. There's no point in me staying and complicating matters."

Prussia hurls another stone at the lake. Brandenburg turns to him questioningly, silently asking his opinion. They never really did need words to communicate; not these days, anyway.

"You sure?" he says eventually. "Once you retire, you can't go back."

Brandenburg sighs and nods slowly. "Yeah, I think I am. I've been feeling... well, I've been feeling pointless. Irrelevant. I think it's best to quit while I'm ahead. And," he shrugs, "it might sound strange, but ageing and dying doesn't scare me. I've spent so long representing humans, it might be nice to try being one for once. Besides, immortality does get old."

Prussia shrugs. "If you say so."

"But you want to stay here, don't you? You don't want to retire."

Brandenburg's right. Life's too much fun to give up willingly. Prussia imagines the glory and triumph that could still be waiting for him just around the corner. He thinks of the pride he feels for his people, the hope he has for the future, the warmth of the sun on his skin and the cold of the wind in his face. He thinks of Hungary, her smile and her scent and the way she makes him feel so damned _alive_, and he grins. "Yeah. I'm too awesome to die."

Brandenburg smiles back. "I was hoping you'd say that."

"Oh? Why?"

"We've taught Ludwig- Germany, I mean- all we can, but he's still so young. He acts mature for his age but he has no experience. One of us - you - has to stay and keep him out of trouble. Make sure he doesn't start any wars or get himself killed."

He whistles. "Right. Keeping people out of trouble. My speciality."

"You know what I mean," says Brandenburg. "Be his advisor. He might be more sensible than you after all this time, but you've got the knowledge. The skills. You know what you're doing where he can only guess."

Perhaps he has a point. _Advisor_. That sounds good. He could be an advisor. He punches Brandenburg lightly on the arm and says, "Alright then, Klaus. You've got yourself a deal."

There's a silence, in which Prussia leans back against the grass and Brandenburg throws a stone that bounces five times before succumbing to gravity. Prussia watches him concentrate on finding his next one and it occurs to him for the first time how much older his partner - _ex-partner_, he reminds himself with a pang of regret - looks these days. When they first became friends, first joined together to take on the world, Brandenburg looked no older than twenty. But now there's a certain tiredness in his eyes, a sluggishness in his movements. He could still pass as young, but someone who knows him as well as Prussia can see age beginning to wear him down.

He doesn't admit that that scares him. He knows that he himself hasn't aged a day. He's far too stubborn to let that happen.

"So what are you planning to do?" he asks Brandenburg, in an attempt to keep himself from thinking too hard. "Move out?"

"Yeah," he says. "I suppose I should, shouldn't I? I'll find myself a place somewhere. Potsdam, probably. I've always liked Potsdam."

"What then?"

Brandenburg shrugs. "Then I live."

_And then you die_, thinks Prussia, but all he says is, "Sounds nice."

"I'll be fine," says Brandenburg. "I know mortality's terrifying to you, but I'm not scared of it. I've lived long enough for anyone." There's a pause, then he sighs and hauls himself to his feet. "Come on. Let's go home."

As they leave the lake behind them and set off back across the countryside, the sun begins to sink over the horizon, casting the sky in shades of pink and gold. He isn't usually quite so poetic, but he can't help but wonder if it's symbolising more than just the end of the day. It's the end of an era. The end of Brandenburg-Prussia, and Saxony, and Hesse, and Bavaria, and perhaps even Baden and Wurttemburg and the Schleswig-Holstein twins. The end of the German states and the dawn of Germany.

But it's not the end of Prussia. They'll have to try harder than this to kill him.

* * *

><p><strong>In the early seventeenth century, the Hohenzollern family (rulers of the Electorate of Brandenburg) intermarried with the ruling family of the Duchy of Prussia and took their place in the line of succession. The result was a unified Brandenburg-Prussia that was incredibly successful and went on to become one of the most powerful and dominant states in Europe. However, after the 1871 unification of Germany, Brandenburg became just a province and lost all real power and relevancy. I like to think that he quietly retired, gave up country status and went to live in peace.<strong>


	6. Run Away With Me

**1904 - Vienna, Austria**

Hungary is not herself, and it worries him.

He had expected her to write to him constantly, complaining about Austria's stuffiness and being forced to wear dresses all the time and how much she misses him. He expected her to come and visit him whenever she had free time. Perhaps he didn't quite expect another night like the one before her wedding, but that didn't mean he couldn't hope.

But she hasn't written him a single letter. She hasn't visited once. She avoids his questions at world meetings and, after a while, she avoids him as well.

Something about this doesn't feel right. They've never been separated for this long. And before you ask, _no_, of course he doesn't _miss_ her. Missing people is for sentimental idiots like Austria. He just finds life less awesome without her around, is all.

He could believe that she's busy. He could believe that she has better things to do than hang around with him. But, just a week ago, he visited her house himself, and that was the last straw.

He had climbed over her fence - Austria's fence - and snuck through the perfectly tended garden as quietly as he could. The plants struck him as somehow unnatural - his own garden was wild and overgrown and, in his opinion, that was how gardens should be. He wondered who forced the flowers and bushes into this betrayal of Mother Nature, and found his answer moments later.

Hungary was bent almost double, trimming stray leaves off some flowery plant he couldn't be bothered to identify. Only, she wasn't Hungary. Her hair was tied up into a French plait secured with a mother-of-pearl butterfly, the colour of which perfectly matched the lace-trimmed dress under her apron. She was even wearing _make-up_. Her smoky eyes and rouge-tinted lips could've given any other man a heart attack on the spot, but to him it just looked as unnatural as her garden.

"You look like a girl."

She jumped and squeezed the scissors, accidentally chopping the main stem and severing the flower from its base. "Prussia!" she snapped, glaring angrily up at him. "Look what you made me do!"

"I thought you didn't like getting your hands dirty these days. Does darling Austria approve of these activities?"

"Of course he does. Gardening's hardly rolling around in the mud, is it?"

He shrugged and grinned mischievously. "It could be."

"Oh, shut up." It wasn't the reaction he'd been hoping for, but it wasn't far from what he'd expected. "Why are you even here?"

"I wanted to ask you a question."

"Then ask it."

"Want to come hunting with me? It's been ages since we've caught up and you used to really like..." his words trailed away as she fixed him with an exasperated glare.

"No. I don't do that stuff any more."

"Why?" he asked, staring at her like he'd never seen her before. "Is it because of Austria? Because he says it's unladylike? Because you're scared?"

"No!" she shouted. "It's because I'm done with rude, vulgar, uncouth _pricks_ like you!"

He took a step back and almost tripped over a rosebush. Her words stung far more than the thorns, and far more than they should. "Fine," he hissed. He turned and strode back the way he'd come, pausing only to call back to her, "I liked you better when you were a boy!"

And, he had realised later, it was all Austria's fault.

She had never taken to dressing up and gardening on her own. It was his doing. He'd planted ideas in her head, made her believe that she had to be mild-mannered and ladylike in order to be worth anything. It was obvious; she was dying inside, desperate for someone to come and save her from the life she'd been forced into. The life that was stifling her, holding back the radiant, beautiful Hungary that he knew she could be.

He could be that someone.

Which is why he climbs her wall one night a week after he visited her in her garden. It's a warm summer evening with the moon shining brightly enough to illuminate every handhold, making his efforts much simpler. He thanks God that Austria's house is so old - the ancient brickwork has plenty of indents big enough for hands and feet, and when that fails there are always those decorative creeper vines that he keeps around. Their bedroom is on the third floor, and he gets up there within five minutes.

He hauls himself up onto the windowsill and peers through the lacy curtains. Hungary is sitting at her dressing table. Austria is nowhere to be seen. Prussia lifts a hand and knocks on the glass.

Hungary's head snaps up, looking around as though unsure as to where the noise is coming from. He knocks again and she looks towards the window, disbelief on her face. She strides across the room, throws back the curtains and opens the window. He tumbles through and lands on the carpet in a way that isn't quite as dignified as what he had planned.

"What in God's name are you doing here, Gil?"

He picks himself up and looks at her. Her arms are crossed and she's glaring at him, angrier than she's ever been before, but all he can see is the green of her eyes. The words tumble from his mouth before he can think of a better way to phrase them. "Run away with me."

Her eyes widen in surprise. "What?"

"Run away with me," he repeats, a little more confidently. "Don't lie to me, Liza. You hate it here. Look at you." He gestures at her long, lacy nightshift. "That's not you. All the dresses, all the make-up, that's not you. That's Austria. You're trapped here and you think there's no escape, but the awesome me is here to rescue you!"

She stares at him in what can only be described as shock. "No," she says, shaking her head. "You've got it all wrong."

"No I haven't. You're-"

"I don't know what you think I am, but you're wrong. I like it here. I don't want to leave."

Now it's his turn to stare at her. "I don't understand."

"What is there to understand? I am happy living in this house. Austria is a perfect gentleman. I like make-up and I like dresses. What's wrong with you, Gil?"

"You don't like dresses," he says triumphantly, seizing this weak point in her argument. "You told me you didn't."

"Really?" She looks half-exasperated, half-amused as she asks, "And when was that?"

"When you visited me before your wedding."

All amusement slips from her face in the blink of an eye. "Don't you dare bring that up, Gilbert Beillschmidt."

"Why not? You told me you hated dresses and cried about having to marry the piano-freak, so don't try and say you like it here. You aren't fooling anyone."

"I'm not trying to fool anyone!" she shouts, stomping away from him in a doomed attempt to keep her composure. "That was years ago! Years! Before I knew what I wanted! This is who I am now, so accept it and get the hell out of our house!"

He can't think of an argument for the rest of it, so he clutches to the one bit he can. "_Our_ house? You mean Austria's house."

She looks close to screaming as she spins back to face him. "What is your problem with him? He's not some sort of abusive control freak, you know! He's ten times the man you'll ever be and he actually has _manners_. I have everything I've ever wanted and I don't need some sort of misguided saviour climbing in through my window and trying to convince me I want to give it all up!"

Prussia stares at her; his plan is falling down around his ears and he doesn't know what to do to salvage the situation. In his imagination, he would swing in through her window and declare that he alone saw through her facade of happiness to the tortured soul beneath. She would run into his arms and express her eternal gratitude to him for saving her from this awful existence and they would escape off into the night together. He had been so sure that would happen. There never was a plan B. Something heavy is sinking through his chest, threatening to tear a hole in his insides. "You don't mean that. You can be honest with me."

"I am being honest! Gilbert, listen to me. I swear that I have no inclination to run away with you. Now please, just leave before Austria comes upstairs and sees you here."

Prussia doesn't know quite why he does it. He's desperate; that's definitely a factor. Perhaps he's trying to show her what she's turning down, or surprise her into telling the truth. Perhaps it's just a last-ditch attempt to change her mind. Whatever the motivations, he crosses the room, catches her by the waist and kisses her.

The next thing he feels is a sharp pain as her hand hits his face with surprising force. He staggers backwards, eyes wide with shock.

"Get out!" She's angry now. Oh, she's angry. He's seen her angry plenty of times before, but this one really takes the cake.

He has to try. Just one last time. "But Liza-"

"You don't understand. Listen to me very carefully, Gilbert, because I'm only going to say this once. I. Love. Austria."

Each word hurts him more than her slap did, and that's already forming a serious bruise on his cheek.

"Now get out."

And, finally, he does.


	7. Smoke and Mud

**1916 - Verdun-sur-Meuse, France**

There are many things to be said about the trenches, but 'warm and cosy' is not one of them.

In his own strange way, Prussia is almost glad of that.

He sits on the firing step even though he isn't strictly supposed to in an attempt to keep out of the water and the mud. It's freezing cold and hellishly uncomfortable but he doesn't mind. If he can concentrate on his utter, overwhelming discomfort then it might be enough to block out even less welcome thoughts. The _crack_ of a rifle echoes somewhere nearby, but he barely even flinches. That sound is as normal to him as breathing is now.

He takes one last drag on his cigarette, flicks the butt into a puddle beneath his feet and fumbles in his pocket for a new one. He pauses, wondering if the cold that came with not smoking would be enough to occupy his mind for a while, then decides that this is a gross overreaction and lights up.

Footsteps are squelching through the mud towards him. For a moment he thinks it might be someone come to tell him to stop sitting around, but then he looks up and forces a smile. "Hey West."

"Hey," says Germany. "You okay?"

"Awesome as ever," he sighs.

"Sure?"

Prussia frowns at him. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Germany pulls himself up onto the firing step, almost leaving his boots behind in the mud, and settles himself down beside his older brother. "You've been acting weird lately. I wasn't going to say anything, but people have been asking questions." He hesitates. "They're wondering if they should send you back to Berlin."

"What?" This is the last thing he expected. A small part of his brain is saying that perhaps that's a good thing, and wouldn't he prefer a warm bed and hot meals back in the civilised world to a cold, muddy trench on France's turf, but it is promptly squished by a much larger part that is utterly incensed about having its pride slighted. "Why the hell would they think that?"

"Well, no offence - I know you're better than any of them," he adds quickly, "but you have been... moping. Are you sick?"

"Nope."

"Injured?"

"Nope."

Germany sighs and stares at his mud-soaked boots as though wondering if it's worth the possible physical pain that might result from voicing his thoughts. "Is this about Hungary?"

Prussia inhales too fast, chokes and doubles over. Germany pats him on the back as he hacks smoke and gasps for air. Then he straightens up slowly, still coughing, and manages to wheeze, "No."

"Are you sure? Because you haven't really been yourself ever since she stopped talking to you at world meetings. Why is that, anyway? What did you do?"

The cheek where she slapped him stings just a little as he tries not to remember. "Nothing. It's probably just Austria telling her not to associate with me."

Germany makes a 'hmmm' noise, and Prussia can't tell whether he believes him or not. "You know," he says slowly, "you're my brother. You can tell me anything. I won't tell anyone else."

Prussia glares at him. This conversation is fast spiralling out of control and he doesn't like it. "How about I tell you to back off?"

"It's perfectly normal to develop a certain amount of attachment to a-"

"I don't have any attachment!"

Germany sighs. "Okay, I understand. You don't love Hungary."

"Thank God, West. I was beginning to think I'd have to spell it out for you in bullets."

"Which," he continues, ignoring Prussia's comment, "is lucky. Because if you did-" he glances at him meaningfully, "-then I'd have to comfort you, wouldn't I?"

"And that would be seriously freaking awkward," he agrees.

"I know. I'd have to tell you that it'd all be okay and advise you not to worry too much about things you can't change."

"Good thing you don't have to do that, then, eh?" says Prussia. The butt of his last cigarette joins the others floating in the puddle and he roots around in his pocket for anothe one that isn't too damp.

"Definitely. But, if I did have to-" and this is accompanied by another meaningful glance, "-I'd add that you should probably think about this war instead of her. Throw yourself into the fight a bit more. Not that you haven't been doing fine so far," he adds quickly as Prussia glares at him, a tongue of flame sparking threateningly from his lighter, "but there really is nothing like a good war to take your mind off things, and God knows we can use all the enthusiasm we can get."

Prussia grunts and takes a long drag on his fresh cigarette. Germany holds his hand out and he passes it over; the younger nation inhales, sighs deeply and hands it back. "Why can't they give us anything good in these _verdammt _ration packs?"

It's the first sign of discomfort Germany's shown this entire war. So far, he's been the perfect model of a soldier, putting up with anything from flooded trenches to enemy artillery fire with an upper lip stiff enough to put Britain to shame. Prussia grins widely at him, the cigarette back between his teeth. "Because everything good disappeared the moment we hit Belgium, don't you remember?"

Germany sighs again and changes the subject. Prussia wishes he wouldn't. "But," he says, looking back at him, "I'd also advise you to try and forget her. Properly. Nothing good can come of this - or could, if it existed, that is. Maybe pick someone else to focus your attention on."

"Yeah, because the trenches are just _brimming _with eligible young women."

"You know what I mean. I think you've ruined your chances with Belgium, but there's always Russia's sisters, or Monaco."

"Shut up."

"If you're willing to travel a bit then I've heard there's plenty of female nations in the East. For example, I know that-"

"For the love of God, West, shut your face!"

Prussia shouts a little more loudly than he meant to. There's a moment of awkward silence.

"Of course," says Germany, not making eye contact, "that's all hypothetical."

They sit for a while in what would've been dead quiet if the gunshots hadn't started up again. Prussia is almost glad of them - they give him a reason not to try speaking. After a few moments, Germany pushes himself off the firing step and lands with an unpleasant noise halfway between a _splash_ and a _squelch_.

"So I'm to take it that you're fine now?" he asks.

Prussia nods noncommittally. He seems to take this as good enough and wades away through the mud and water.

Perhaps he's right. Perhaps devoting a little more effort to the war would help him forget. Not that there's anything he needs to forget, of course. She isn't bothering him. It's just... his duty. It's his duty to his country to stop dwelling on things he can't change and actually try to win this war.

He sits on the firing step for another few minutes, inhaling and exhaling slowly until the cigarette is spent, then flicks the butt to join the ever-growing pile floating in the puddle and stands up. He slings his rifle back over his shoulder and follows Germany's muddy footsteps back down the trench._ I hope you know what you're talking about, West._


	8. A Prussian Waltz

**1918 - Berlin, Germany**

This time, it's Hungary who comes to him. And she has the good manners to use the door.

Prussia hears the sound of the bell and doesn't bother to get up. If West wants to be such a control freak then he can answer his own _verdammt _door. But, when the bell rings again and he still can't hear any footsteps in the hall, he sighs, swears under his breath and hauls himself to his feet, stubbing out his cigarette in the overflowing ashtray by the couch. _He's probably off in his stupid office again. _West had been a bit busy lately - well, 'a bit' was an understatement. The Great War was over and now everyone hated them, Britain and France especially. And apparently when Britain and France hate someone, they drag America into it and force them to sign a treaty that's full of fancy lawyer-speak and long words but might as well just save ink and say 'give us every mark you have plus more, get rid of your entire army and starve to death, losers.'

And that's exactly what they're doing.

Technically West was the one shouldering the blame, but they both paid the consequences. Food had been scarce, money scarcer and West had been almost non-existent as he spent every moment of his life locked in his office or out meeting important officials or overseeing production of who-knows-what. But whatever he's doing, it's not enough. He refuses to let Prussia help - apparently the situation is difficult enough without him to have to worry about - which leaves him with almost nothing to do. France is hardly in the mood for hanging out and Spain is keeping his distance, so he's bored and alone and even scruffier than usual.

The Great War hurt everyone. He and his brother are suffering the worst of the post-war restrictions, but no-one got off scot-free. Belgium is desecrated. France is covered in muddy trenches and dead bodies. Turkey is a shell of his former self. Russia's barely recognisable. Even Britain has lost so many young men his population is grossly imbalanced, and there hadn't even been any fighting in his country.

And Austria and Hungary got a divorce.

He isn't too clear on the details. They were forced into it by Britain, France and America, he knew that much, but he hasn't spoken to either of them since the end of the war. Last he heard, Hungary had moved back into her old house to deal with her post-war problems by herself. He'd often thought of visiting her - to apologise, hang out and try to turn back time to when they were friends - but the fact was that he barely had any unpatched clothes to wear. She'd spent the last era of her life living in Austria's massive house, wearing fancy dresses, attending balls and eating at banquets. He only just has enough money to buy food, let alone nice clothes, and his house is an absolute pigsty. Even _he_ wouldn't form an alliance with him.

Actually, that isn't true. He would totally form an alliance with himself, but that's because only he truly understands how awesome he is. He can't guarantee Hungary will be that insightful.

He kicks aside some boxes, empty bottles and piles of unidentified crap as he heads down the hallway, then reaches the door and pulls it open just as the bell rings for a third time.

Hungary is standing on his doorstep.

He gapes at her. She's just as much of a mess as he is; her shirt is patched and dirty, she wears a bandage around her left arm and, once again, she's been crying. There are tear tracks down her unusually gaunt face and her wide, sunken eyes are bloodshot and puffy.

"H-Hungary-" is all he manages before she kisses him.

Her sudden movement takes him so thoroughly by surprise that he stumbles backwards. She follows him over the threshold, slamming the door behind her, and launches herself at him again. Her lips close over his own, hot and demanding, and her arms clutch at him so tightly he can barely breathe. She tastes like smoke and cordite as she kisses him with so much passion and ferocity his mind blanks.

He doesn't know how it happens - he certainly doesn't decide to do it - but he's kissing her back, relishing the feel of her, reliving the night spent at her house so long ago. They fall sideways through the door to the living room and collapse onto the couch; Hungary is on top of him before he knows what he's doing, pinning him to the cushions and kissing him as though her life depends on it. She's thin and patched and more than a little worse for wear, but so is he, and he's frankly just glad that she hasn't turned her nose up at him. Maybe Austria had less of an influence on her than he thought.

Austria.

Something feels wrong all of a sudden, like their perfect clockwork machine has a cog missing. Prussia closes his mouth and breaks the kiss. Hungary gives him a confused look, then leans down and presses her lips to his again. _Wait... what was I thinking about? _She's so impossibly beautiful and she's his and _oh God_ nothing exists but her.

...Except that it does.

"Gil, stop thinking," she murmurs against him. She pulls him up by the collar of his shirt until they're both sitting upright and begins to undo the buttons. His heart skips a beat and he misses his chance to speak. She smiles at him and falls backwards, pulling him down on top of her and wrapping her legs around his waist.

For a moment he's in bliss again, but after a few seconds that feeling is back. He can't put his finger on it, but something's wrong. She's not herself. She's... hungry, almost. Desperate.

"What's wrong?" she asks him, looking positively affronted as he pushes her away.

"We can't do this." _What the hell, Gil? Stop ruining it!_

"Yes we can." She tries to pull him down again, but he places his hands on her shoulders and holds her back. "What are you doing? Why not?"

_Listen to her, arschloch. She knows what she's talking about. _"Because it... it wouldn't be right."

"What's not right about it?" she demands. _Nothing, that's what!_

He takes a deep breath. "You're a mess. You've just divorced Austria and lost your house, your money, your empire and the biggest war you've ever been in. You're feeling scared and alone and you want me to make you feel better, but I can't. I can't take advantage of you like this. I... I'm sorry."

She watches him as he speaks and stares at him as though trying to work out what to make of this. Then she smiles again, as though he's just told a great joke. "All this talking is so pointless," she says, and her honey-smooth voice floats seductively into his ears. She pushes her sleeves off her shoulders and shrugs, letting them slide down her arms. His breath catches. "You're thinking too much, Gil. Reading too much into this. Just let yourself go." She struggles against his grip, but he's too strong. "Stop it!" The seductiveness is gone, replaced by something not unlike anger. "Why are you being so mature all of a sudden?"

_Yeah, Gil! Stop being such a killjoy! _"Liza, you'll regret this if you go through with it."

"So what? That's not your problem!" She's desperate now, and that confirms his doubts.

"Alright," he concedes. "I'll do whatever you want on one condition."

"Yes?" She leans forwards, pressing against his hands, waiting on tenterhooks.

"Look me in the eyes and tell me you love me."

She freezes, just like he knew she would. The first time he kissed her, back when she was Austria's maid and he was a reckless teenager, had been to prove that he could. The second time, just before her wedding, was so that Austria couldn't have her. This time is no different. It's a game, just like the other two, and as much as he aches to cast the thought aside and kiss her until all his doubts fall away, this is no time for games.

"I..." she starts, trying valiantly to force the words out. "I... I hate you so much!"

And then she's lying on top of him again, but this time she's crying into his shirt. He sits up slowly, carefully, and wraps his arms around her.

"I don't hate you," she admits after a good five minutes, her words interspersed with sniffs and sobs. "I don't know what I think. I don't know what's going on. I don't know what's going to happen."

"Me neither," he says, stroking her hair and rocking her gently as she cries. "Me neither."

* * *

><p>After she's sobbed her eyes dry, she lifts her head from his shirt and wraps her arms around his neck. "I'm sorry," she whispers. "I wasn't... I didn't mean to..."<p>

"'S fine," he says.

The rest of the day is spent on activities Prussia has often found to have great emotional healing powers. They make huge mugs of hot chocolate complete with foam and so many marshmallows they can barely reach the liquid. He pulls a dusty gramophone from a cupboard and puts on the sort of modern jazz music that Austria hates, then they find blankets and pillows and sit huddled on the couch, listening to the music and drinking the steaming hot chocolate. They stay there for a while after their mugs are emptied, content to stay warm and comfortable under the blankets.

That is, until Prussia's favourite song comes on.

"Come on," he says, scrambling to his feet.

"Excuse me?"

"This song's awesome."

She flashes him a coy smile and tries to suppress her laughter. "And?"

"Liza, you aren't seriously going to make me ask you to dance, are you?"

"I'm not going to make you," she says, but stays planted firmly on the couch.

He sighs and holds out a hand to her. "Elizabeta, would you like to dance with me?"

"I'd love to," she grins.

She takes his hand and lets him pull her to her feet just in time for the music to pick up speed. They spin around Prussia's living room with no particular rhythm or musicality to their steps; the song is just there to provide a backing track to the chaos. He can see her hesitation at first - she learnt to dance with Viennese waltzes, after all - but she soon finds her confidence, getting the hang of this new routine. She laughs as he twirls her, her hair flying out in a corona around her head. This is a dance of his own devising and it's nothing like anything that ever came out of Vienna. This isn't a dance for fancy ballrooms or stages. It's a Prussian waltz. It's a dance for careering around living rooms, making your own steps up as you go and spinning around and around until you're too dizzy to stand. It's a dance for laughing your head off, forgetting your troubles and twirling until the world seems alright again.

By the time they finally collapse onto the couch, breathing hard with the room spinning in their stead, all evidence of Hungary's tears has disappeared.

They fall asleep sprawled across the cushions, still smiling wide, contented smiles.

* * *

><p>Once again, he wakes up before she does. They're still snuggled on the couch with her head on his chest and their legs tangled together. It reminds him of that night in 1867, except this time they're wearing clothes.<p>

Careful not to wake her up, he detaches himself from her and rolls off the couch. For a moment, he's tempted to bend down and shake her awake, but something about the peaceful smile on her face and the way her hair fans out around her head makes him think twice.

The best thing to do, he decides, is go for a walk. She's bound to feel embarrassed and disorientated when she wakes up; if he's away, she has the option of leaving without having to explain herself.

He finds his coat and is about to leave when he takes one last look over his shoulder at her sleeping form. It's a cold day and it's not like he and Germany can afford heating. He picks up a blanket from where it fell to the floor during the night and drapes it over her, making sure it covers her toes and tucking it in at the edges, then stands back and admires his handiwork. There. That should keep her warm until she wakes up. _Coming back to find a frozen corpse on my couch would be seriously un-awesome._

And then he opens the door, braces himself against the cold wind, and leaves.

When he returns, he shakes the frost off his coat and throws it on the floor. _West'll hang it up later. _He half-expects Hungary to be there waiting, but he isn't surprised when he goes through to the living room and finds no trace of her.

No trace, that is, except a handwritten note on the couch, scribbed on a piece of paper torn from one of the stacks of bills strewn across the floor. It reads simply, '_köszönöm_'.

* * *

><p><strong>If you ever find yourself feeling depressed, just do the Prussian waltz. I guarantee you, it works like anything. ^_^<strong>


	9. A Walk in Munich

**1925 - Munich, Germany**

He finds her sitting on a park bench at exactly eleven o'clock.

"Hey," she says, getting to her feet and checking her watch in surprise. "You're not late."

"I can be punctual when I want to be," he grins. "You're early, Liza. Feeling impatient?"

She snorts and punches him on the arm. "You wish. I just got here this morning and I didn't have anything better to do."

"If you say so," he shrugs, but he's still smiling and so is she.

Without really deciding to, they begin to walk down one of the paths through the park. Around them, people are walking dogs, families are eating picnic brunches and couples are strolling along arm in arm. It's a surprisingly warm morning - the weather has just started heating up for summer and only the slight hint of frost in the air tells them that it's still spring. The park is one of his favourites, which is why he suggested they meet here. Munich is a beautiful city on the worst of days, but mornings like this are what he still lives for.

Before the silence has a chance to drag on, Hungary says hesitantly, "You never did tell me how... well... what happened to you. How you're still..." Her voice trails away, but he knows exactly what she means.

"I'm not gone, if that's what you're getting at," he says. "I'm not a Kingdom any more, but I'm still technically around. The Free State of Prussia. They wanted to call me 'the Republic of Prussia', but I didn't want to look like I was copying France. I'm just a state, but I still exist."

"I see..." she says, and he can tell from her face that she's pitying him. Wondering how it must feel, going from one of the most powerful empires in Europe to a shadow of his former self, not even entirely sure why he's not dead yet. He's felt enough self-pity and he doesn't need it from her.

Perhaps that's what makes him ask, "What about Austria?"

A tiny jolt goes through her and her head snaps towards him. He's never asked her that question before. Austria has always been one of those topics that were understood to be against the rules, at the forefront of both of their minds but silently agreed to remain unspoken. "What about him?" she asks warily.

"Do you miss him?"

She takes a moment to consider this. "...Yes," she says. "Yes, I do. But," she adds quickly, "I'm not sorry we split."

He raises an eyebrow in silent question.

She sighs deeply, as though wondering how to explain something like this to someone as emotionally dense as Prussia. "I loved him. I really did love him, and he loved me too, but... he got too obsessed with his empire and the war. He took me for granted, like he could ignore me as much as he liked and I'd still be there when he needed me. He's apologised since - to my face, not through a letter - and I've forgiven him, but... I don't know, we just..."

"You just grew apart," he finishes for her.

"Yeah..." she says.

They reach the end of the park. Prussia leads the way out into the streets, taking her the most scenic route he can think of to nowhere in particular. It's busier than the park - all kinds of people traverse the cobblestones, some in a desperate hurry and others just strolling leisurely like them. Hungary's gaze wanders from building to building, taking in the simplistic yet oddly beautiful style. He smiles; Munich was never really his city, but he's proud of it all the same.

"So how are you holding up?" she asks. "After the treaty, I mean."

He shrugs as casually as he can manage. The truth is, he's hardly better than he was right after the war. He and Germany are still bound so tightly by the terms of that _verdammt _treaty they can barely breathe without breaking some restriction or minor clause. He's almost constantly hungry, their house is falling apart and they can barely even afford patches, let alone new clothes. Not to mention that Russia's newfound power coupled with their ban on building up any sort of worthwhile military, even just for defensive purposes, is making them both very nervous. But he can't tell her that. She'll just start pitying him again, and that's one thing he knows he won't be able to stand. "We're fine," he says. "Been better, been worse. You know how it goes."

She smiles up at him. "That's good to hear. You never tell me anything about your own country these days - I was starting to worry."

"Well, it's not really my country, is it?"

"You know what I mean," she says. "You're in an advisory capacity."

"An advisory capacity?" When she put it like that, it wasn't bad at all. The fact that West barely even listened to him, let alone did anything he said, meant nothing. It was just like Brandenburg had said; an advisor, someone with experience to steer him in the right direction. "I like the sound of that."

They laugh, and almost don't notice the boy selling books by the side of the street. He notices them, though, and hurries up with a thick book clutched in his fingers. "Excuse me sir, ma'am, would you be interested in purchasing a copy? It's only just come out and you'll get it far cheaper here than-"

"No thanks," says Prussia, not even glancing at the cover. If he had money for books then he'd have taken Hungary somewhere more impressive than just the streets of Munich.

"Oh, come on, Gil, just have a look." Hungary grabs his hand to stop him from walking away and bends down to speak to the boy. He's barely older than ten and scrawny at that. His clothes are patched and his face is gaunt; this job is probably the only thing keeping him alive. Prussia would've felt sorry for him if he wasn't one of millions of malnourished children struggling to survive in this country. He doesn't have any pity left to spare. Hungary, however, seems to believe that he's out of the ordinary. She fishes in her bag for her purse and he can't help but notice how empty it is. Either she's travelling light or she's not in much of a better state than he is. Even so, her heart seems to overpower her wallet as she smiles at the boy and says, "How much, dear?"

The boy's face lights up as he gives the price and she counts out the money for him. He tucks it into a pouch at his belt and hands her the book. "Danke schoen, Frau."

"Danke," she says. Her German is heavily accented, but he's willing to bet it's a good sight better than his Hungarian.

"It's probably just some self-published pile of crap, you know," he says, once they've left the bookseller behind them.

"I know," she says, examining the cover. "I just felt bad not buying it. That kid looked so desperate and it was really cheap, so I just thought 'why not?'"

_Because even cheap things cost money_, thinks Prussia, but doesn't say it. "What's it called?"

She runs a finger across the thick Gothic letters. "Mein Kampf," she reads, then tucks the book into her bag. "You want to go get a snack or something? I barely ate any breakfast."

He freezes. A snack. Can he afford a snack? He runs through the calculations in his head as fast as he can, adding up this week's allowances and the cost of living. _Food for the week... cigarettes... toiler paper... heating... electricity... Yes! _If he skips dinner tonight, he can afford to take Hungary to a cafe and pay for her food! _Awesome. _"Sure," he shrugs. "I could go for a snack. I know this great place just round the corner from here."

He'll have to order the cheapest thing on the menu, of course, whether he likes the taste of it or not. Ordering nothing would just worry Hungary. But, as they sit down in the gorgeous little cafe at a table for two with a beautiful view of the park, he realises that the cheapest thing on the menu is, in fact, a warm double-chocolate muffin, and he feels just a little bit better. And, as Hungary smiles at him across the table with her stunningly green eyes and her honey-brown hair reflecting the morning sunlight, he feels quite a lot better.

Yeah, things are going badly. But at least they're not at war any more, right? This whole Treaty of Versailles thing would blow over eventually. Deep down, Prussia has always been an optimist. It had served him well in the past and it would serve him well now. After all, there aren't many ways in which this situation could get worse, and that means that the only way to go is up. The present could be better, but the future is bright.


	10. Reasons to Exist

**1935 - Potsdam, Germany**

The evening is beginning to get cold, but Prussia has more important things on his mind than temperature. Still wearing the light jacket that had been sufficient when he arrived here just past midday, he kneels in the grass and stares blankly ahead at the grey stone slab in front of him. It is engraved with a name and a date, the crispness of the letters starting to wear with age.

Brandenburg.

Prussia doesn't quite know how he ended up here. He remembers the letter. Something icy begins to writhe in his insides at the thought of it. The letter. It was short, formal and to-the-point, even more so than Germany usually was. A short note detailing the de facto dissolution of the Free State of Prussia, because 'I thought I should let you know'. Germany thought he should let him know that his own country had been dissolved. He generously took time out of his busy schedule to write him a letter informing him that he no longer existed.

Prussia wonders if he wrote a letter because he couldn't face telling him in person, or because it really meant that little to him. He has to believe it's the former.

After he'd read through the letter through three times, the rest of the day becomes a blur in his memory. He isn't sure he was even fully self-aware. He has a vague memory of a train, a search for a particular stone slab in a sea of identical headstones, and now he's here. He doesn't know why. He supposes it's as good a place to be as any.

"I'm sorry I didn't visit you," he says, not sure if he should speak to the stone or the ground in front of it. He might be immortal, but he hasn't yet made a habit of conversing with the dead. "I just... I don't know. I was too busy doing what you told me to. Looking after Ludwig." He snorts a laugh, callous and devoid of humour. "Fat lot of good I did there. The Great War constitutes getting into trouble, doesn't it?" He sighs and stares at his knees. Damp earth and moisture from the grass is seeping into the fabric of his trousers, but he doesn't care. "I'm sorry. If it's any consolation, I think we did the other side almost as much damage as they did to us. Not that you'd approve of that sort of logic, though. Perhaps you should've been the one looking after him. You were always much smarter than me." He looks back up at the headstone, then down at the grass, and compromises by staring at the mossy earth where the stone meets the ground instead. "Is it nice up there?" he asks. "I know it's a better place than down here, but... but I like it down here. I'm not like you. I'm not ready to leave." It's true. He's lived far longer than he has any right to, but he doesn't want to die. Not now. Not like this. "But you'd better put in a good recommendation for me, okay? Because I might be joining you soon whether I like it or not."

He doesn't hear the footsteps until they're right next to him and a voice is saying, "Gil?"

He looks up, blinks, and decides he must be hallucinating. Hungary is standing beside him, looking down at him with genuine concern written across her face. All he can manage is, "How did you..."

"I came to visit you," she explains. "I found Germany's letter. You weren't home and your coat was gone, so I went to the train station and asked after you. You do look quite distinctive, you know. The conductor directed me towards Potsdam, and it didn't take me long to figure out where you'd be." She drops to her knees next to him, ignoring the mud as it stains her skirt. "Are you okay?" she asks quietly.

He shrugs. "Been better. Why did you follow me all the way out here?"

Her voice is still a half-whisper as she says, "I didn't want you to have to face this alone."

But they both know she can't help him. There's nothing she can do. She doesn't even know what it feels like. She's Hungary, Magyarorszag, just like she's always been and always will be. But he's just... nothing. Not a country, not even a state. Pretty soon he'll be just like Brandenburg. Mortal, and then dead.

He tries to gather his thoughts, but they slip through his fingers and tumble around his mind in an uncontrolled mess. He gazes hopelessly at Hungary, silently begging her to say something, do something, knowing full well she's as powerless to change this as he is. _Why me? Out of all the major empires in Europe, why am I the only one who has to disappear?_ Whenever he imagined dying, he'd imagined a valiant battle fought heroically defending his country and people against an overwhelmingly stronger foe. A proper, honourable death for a nation like himself. Something worthwhile. Worth remembering. Not because Germany's bureaucrats signed a couple of documents and decided he wasn't worth the trouble. _It's not fair!_

Hungary's eyes meet his and she does the only thing she can. She wraps her arms around him and pulls him sideways, hugging him tightly and with conviction. He doesn't struggle. She's warm and comforting and she smells like flowers, and enveloped in her embrace, some semblance of feeling begins to return to him.

"Life never promised to be fair," she whispers. "All you can do is look at what it gives you instead of what it takes away. You've only been dissolved de facto, not de jure. And even if that doesn't count, you're still a region. Having no official borders doesn't change that. And the Teutonic Knights are still around, aren't they? You were them before you were Prussia. There's still plenty of things keeping you here. You have lots of reasons to exist. You won't die," she finishes, as though she can persuade God if she herself is sure enough of it.

"But..."

"Ludwig needs you, Gil," she says. "I know you think you've failed him, but the Great War wasn't your fault no matter what they say. He's grown up fast but he's still so young, so inexperienced. Promise me you'll stay alive for him. And for me."

She's right. Now she's said it plain and clear, it makes sense. He still has plenty of ties to life. The Free State of Prussia might be gone, but he isn't. There's no pretending that he isn't a shadow of what he was, barely clinging to life, but he does have a right to exist. That has to count for something.

"Now," she says, still holding him close, "what are you going to do? And I expect a proper answer."

He breathes, long and deep, just to remind himself that he can. "I'm going back to Berlin," he says. "I may not have any authority over Germany any more, but I can still do my best to keep him on the right track. Help him rebuild himself. Staying close to him can't hurt either of us, can it?" If he embeds himself deeply enough in Germany's affairs, maybe he'll find it easier to maintain his status as a... what is he now? Not a country. Barely even a state.

"You're an advisor," says Hungary. "Remember?"

He swallows and nods. An advisor. That's what he is.

"That's the Prussia I know," she smiles.

He can't quite smile back, but he comes close.

She squeezes him one last time, then lets him go and stands up. "Come on," she says, holding her hand out. "Let's go back. It's getting cold out here."

He still doesn't quite trust himself to speak, but he takes her hand and lets her pull him to his feet. His legs are a little steadier than he expected; he barely needs to rely on her for support as they make their way back to the train station, arm-in-arm.

He can still feel the cold, feel the wind buffet his face, feel the first droplets of rain land in his hair. He's alive. He just needs to cling to that fact, remind himself of it every morning, never let it go. Fe doesn't have to die yet. He still has reasons to exist. He has East Prussia, region rather than country. He has the Teutonic Knights. He has his promise to Brandenburg, his advisory position to Germany. And, of course, he has the green-eyed, honey-haired reason right next to him.


	11. Schadenfreude

**1938 - Berlin, Germany**

Austria is playing Liszt.

Prussia lies on the couch in the adjacent room, his feet propped up and a cigarette dangling from his mouth, and hates himself for being able to recognise it. Liszt, Beethoven, Mozart, Chopin... Austria had played them all in a near-constant loop that echoed through every corner of the house until Prussia couldn't help but be able to tell them apart. It's bad enough that he has to live with the piano-freak now without him insisting on doing nothing but playing the piano every minute of the _verdammt _day.

This, he decides, it Germany's fault for two reasons, the first being the annexation of Austria. Anschluss, he'd called it, a mutually agreed-upon union of German areas. Prussia didn't know why he bothered; they all knew what it really was. He'd argued against it, of course - no way in hell was he sharing this house with Austria without a fight - but it had made no difference. Austria arrived at their front door escorted by German soldiers and set about moving his surprisingly few possessions into one of the free bedrooms. And then he had sat down at the piano, placed his long, manicured fingers on the keys and begun to play, entirely from memory. And he had done precious little else for weeks.

The second reason was that Germany had banned jazz. Prussia liked jazz. He'd become fond of the new movement before it had even had a chance to pick up steam and had listened to barely anything else for years now. There was something about the chaos of it, the deliberately off-key notes and upside-down harmonies. It unapologetically broke all the rules and dared stuck-up music aficionados like Austria to criticise it. But Germany swore that it encouraged rule-breaking and promiscuity and had, despite Prussia's desperate protests, forbidden it. The day the law was passed, he had raided Prussia's cupboards and thrown away every old jazz vinyl he'd collected over the years. He had searched every corner, found the tracks hidden in clothes and behind dressers, and left him with nothing with which to drown out Austria's constant barrage of classical crap.

Prussia grits his teeth and stubs out his cigarette. He's been putting up with this from dawn until dusk with barely any breaks, even for meals, for too long now, and he can't stand any more. He drags himself to his feet and stomps into the next room, slamming the door behind him.

"Mary Mother of God, Austria, shut _up_!"

Liszt falters and fades away. Austria looks up from the keys and stares directly at Prussia with dark-circled eyes peering through uncharacteristically unkempt hair. "I don't believe _I _am the one slamming doors and interrupting people."

"Do you have _nothing_ else to do? You've been playing that bloody music for weeks and it's doing my Goddamned head in!"

"Playing the piano helps me to relax," he says, running a hand through his already messy hair. Mariazell is hanging limply to one side. "And it's hardly like I have the affairs of a country to take care of these days, is it?" he says dryly. "You would know how dull that is, wouldn't you, _Preussen_?"

Prussia crosses his arms and wishes he could hit him without Germany kicking his arse later. "Just. Stop. Playing. That. _Verdammt_. Piano. Or I swear to God, I will break it and then I will break you."

"It would be amusing to see you try," he says, and Liszt fills the room again before he can reply.

* * *

><p>"PRUSSIA!"<p>

He smiles lazily and ambles down to the parlour, taking his sweet time about it. "You called?"

Austria is pacing back and forth in front of the piano, his face a mixture of panic, desperation and sheer, blinding anger. "What did you do?" he almost wails.

"I don't know, what did I do?"

"Don't play games with me!" Austria stabs a finger at the open lid of the piano. Prussia can't see it from this angle, but he knows that inside the perfectly lacquered wooden walls are eight octaves of neatly cut strings. "You destroyed my piano!"

"It's _my_ piano, actually," says Prussia. "This is my house. I was here first."

"It's not your house," hisses Austria. He's angry. He's angrier than Prussia's ever seen him, even when he defeated him in battle and took away his territory. It's actually a bit unnerving; Austria's brand of anger is quiet and refined, held back and expressed only through sniping remarks and a pronounced coolness of demeanour. But now he's stomping back and forth, back and forth, hands alternating between tugging at his hair and twitching as though aching to press down on piano keys. "It's Germany's house. We're both just useless pawns now."

Prussia snorts. "You might be, but I happen to serve in an _advisory capacity. _Germany's my little brother. He listens to me."

Austria barks a laugh that's half manic, half desperate and all humourless. "Does he now? Is that why he dissolved you? Is that why he annexed me? Is that why he banned jazz and smoking and-"

"Hey, I won't deny that he's the one in charge here. But just because _you're _a helpless shell of your former self doesn't mean I am."

Austria almost screams in frustration. Prussia'll die before he shows it, but his behaviour's starting to worry him. He hadn't expected that cutting his piano strings would send him into such a dramatic meltdown. "You _are_! How can you not see that? How can you be so deeply in denial you can't even see what you are? You don't exist! I don't exist! We're both utterly powerless and in so far over our heads we'll be lucky if we don't drown!"

"Hey!" Anger is bubbling up inside him now. "I know exactly what I'm doing! Okay, maybe I don't have official borders or anything any more, but I'm as strong as I ever was and Germany's making me stronger! We aren't bound by that _verdammt _treaty any more. We're taking back what's ours and the world's too scared to do a thing to stop us. If you call that powerlessness, then-"

"Oh, Germany's not the powerless one! Are you really so dense that you can't see what's happening right in front of you?" Austria pauses, eyes wild, then his shoulders slump and he collapses onto the piano bench, his face in his hands. "The Rhineland... the Sudetenland... me... it's all just a prelude. It's the opening act to something so much worse, and the rest of the world won't sit back and watch us run amok forever. We're on the brink of a war even bigger than the last one, and if we manage to survive it then we'll have been accomplices in something terrible."

Prussia stares at him, one eyebrow raised. "Maybe I shouldn't have broken that piano," he says. "I didn't realise you were so attached to it. You've gone mad. We're more powerful than we've ever been, you know. If war does come, we'll be strong enough to crush the world. This time, we'll win." Austria doesn't lift his head. He just sits there, sinking quietly into despair. "You know, you really do give up easily," says Prussia, in the absence of a reply. "No wonder Hungary left you."

That gets a reaction out of him. His head jerks up and he stares at him in shock. "I don't believe that's any of your business."

"Oh, it's plenty of my business." This is out of line and he knows it and he hates the words tumbling out of his mouth, but it's so maliciously satisfying. Austria had told him things he didn't want to know, and now he was returning the favour.

"How so? Please do enlighten me," he says, sarcasm dripping from his voice in a way that thoroughly irks Prussia.

"She wasn't all that keen to marry you, you know," he snarls. "Maybe she didn't want you to be her first. But helping each other out is what friends are for, isn't it, _Ostmark_?"

Austria's expression freezes, but Prussia isn't done yet. It's cruel and he hates himself for it, but it feels _so good _and suddenly he _hates _the nation sitting in front of him, hates him for stealing Hungary and playing his stupid piano and daring to look so utterly hopeless, for daring to remind him of what he's been trying so hard to ignore.

"I suppose I owed her a favour," he says in mock-nonchalance, "after we trashed your parlour and she hid me under your piano. While you were playing it. Bit big for a squirrel, aren't I? But then again, maybe I didn't - would you count kisses as a good way to repay favours?"

Austria still hasn't moved. Even his breathing seems to have stopped dead.

"If that's the case, then she owes _me_ after that night in 1904... Oh, were you married then? Oops. But she can't have cared that much - you know the first thing she did after she divorced you?" He grins a malicious, spiteful grin, and hisses, "You guessed it."

He wishes Austria would do something. Fight back, punch him, even just change his expression. Anything at all. He wants to argue, to exchange insults and cutting words, to fight with fists and elbows and teeth. But he just stares wordlessly off into space, either unwilling or unable to speak, before his face drops back into his hands and he deflates like a punctured zeppelin.

* * *

><p>Almost thirty minutes later, Prussia passes the door to the parlour and peers quietly through. Austria is still slumped on the bench, just as broken as the piano.<p>

He goes through into the living room, lies back down on the couch and tries to enjoy the blessed new silence. In that one argument, he defeated Austria more thorougly than he ever has on the battlefield. He should feel triumphant, victorious, superior. But as he lights another cigarette and tries not to think about the nation in the other room, he can't quite manage it.

* * *

><p><strong>In my defence, this chapter was almost completely accidental. It wasn't in my story plan or anything; I only decided we needed it a few hours ago. And I can assure you, from what little planning I did do, none of it involved Prussia cutting down Austria like that. That was all him. I was literally shouting for him to shut up. But Prussia has this habit of hijacking stories, and he really didn't like it when Austria popped his little bubble. So he pretty much just exploded and ruined my entire story plan. I bet he isn't even sorry.<strong>

**Oh, and I almost forgot. Schadenfreude has no good English translation, but it's basically German for 'to take malicious pleasure from someone else's pain.' It seemed to fit.**


	12. Treaties and Promises

**1941 - Berlin, Germany**

Hungary regards them both across the table, the fountain pen balanced lightly in her hand. "I still don't approve of what you did to Poland, you know."

"We had no choice," says Germany. Prussia doesn't know why he's so tense - the Tripartite Pact is as good as signed. The negotiations have already taken place, and there's no way Hungary would travel all the way from Budapest just to refuse to cooperate. "This is war. Sacrifices must be made in order to achieve victory."

"And what about Romania?" she asks. "He's been annoying me quite a lot recently. Can I expect help from you?"

"Of course. We won't let him take any more of your territory."

"And Russia?"

"We'll protect you from him to the last man."

A wide, dazzling smile breaks out over her face. "That's what I wanted to hear," she says, and signs the Pact with a looping scrawl of a signature.

Germany smiles back. "Welcome to the Axis Powers, Miss Hungary."

* * *

><p>Prussia doesn't know why they bother with an afterparty. It's just the signing of a treaty, for God's sake. But, as he leans against the wall and watches the suit-wearing, briefcase-carrying men drink champagne and try their best to enjoy themselves, he supposes people like that have to take every opportunity to party. For them, this is probably the greatest night of the year. For him, it's nothing short of dull. The people are boring, the champagne isn't nearly alcoholic enough and the band is classical. <em>Classical! How is anyone supposed to dance to classical music?<em>

And that gives him an idea.

He scoots surreptitiously across the room and intercepts Hungary before she can reach the government official she was heading towards. He doesn't know who it is - they all look the same to him. "Hey," he says, grinning mischievously. "Want to go to a real party?"

She gives him a sideways look, her curiosity piqued. "What do you have in mind?"

"Come with me." Without waiting for her consent, he takes her hand and leads her out of the room as quickly as he can.

"Where are we going?" she asks as they reach the hallway.

"Somewhere much more fun than this dump." He reaches the doorway and pulls it open, dragging Hungary out into the cold night air.

They hurry down paved streets and across roads, heading further out into the city. It's pitch black and the sky is almost completely starless, but the streetlights illuminate the pavement enough for them to find their way. There are still a few people about - people like them, of course. All the respectable types have gone to bed. The cold bites through his dinner jacket and Hungary's hand shivers in his. She's only wearing an evening gown - green, of course, to complement her eyes, with capped sleeves and a long skirt. Without even turning around, he shrugs off his jacket and throws it back to her.

They reach the their destination in only ten minutes. It's hidden in the basement of a perfectly legitimate bar, invisible unless you know where to look. Prussia grins at the barman and leads Hungary down the stairs into one of Berlin's best illegal jazz clubs.

"I found this place after West chucked out all my vinyls," he tells her, raising his voice to be heard above the dampened trumpets and crashing cymbals. He weaves his way through the dark, smoky maze of tables, chairs and customers and finds a seat right next to the stage, which is only a little too small for the band, singers and dancing girls filling the room with their cacophonous, disorderly, _awesome _music. "They're all over the city, but this one's the closest and the best. Just do me a favour and don't let West know I come here, okay?"

Hungary shrugs off his jacket and hangs it over the back of her chair; it's more than warm enough in here. "Okay," she breathes, too fixated on her surroundings to form a more sophisticated reply. Prussia doesn't blame her; the place feels like an underground wonderland, as though they've slipped down a rabbit hole into a different, altogether more magical world from the dull, industrial city outside. It assaults your senses from every side - the smell of liquor and smoke, the taste of stale sweat and dust, the heat and the noise and the sight of the lights and the dancers. They're a little overdressed, what with his suit (even if the shirt collar is unbuttoned and the tie loosened) and Hungary's emerald evening dress, but everyone here melts into the smoke and the music in a way that makes it impossible to feel out of place. It's overwhelming and downright terrifying, but mesmerising at the same time.

"You won't regret signing that thing," he says, leaning back in his chair and waving for a waiter to bring them both a drink. "You've just joined the winning side, Liza."

"I know," she smiles. "How's Austria, by the way? He hasn't spoken to me since he moved in with you guys." The smile slips slightly into a look of concern and confusion, and something jolts sickeningly deep in Prussia's stomach.

"He's fine," he says, trying to ignore the guilt clawing at his insides. Except it can't be guilt, can it? He hates the piano-freak and he deserves all he got. Doesn't he? "He hasn't been speaking to anyone much. He just sits at that piano and plays all day."

"Maybe he's not coping so well with the annexation..." she frowns. "He always used to use music as a way of taking his mind off things."

He shrugs. The waiter chooses that moment to return with two mismatched glasses of beer and place them on the table. Prussia picks his up gratefully and takes a long gulp, and opposite him Hungary does the same. Perhaps if he drinks enough, he can drown that annoying twinge that always seems to raise its head whenever anyone mentions Austria these days.

"But anyway," he says, changing the subject. "This war is going awesomely. Half of Europe was so scared they pretty much just handed themselves over, and the other half's nowhere near a match for us. You should've seen France's face when we took Paris..." He laughs, the memory of his former friend captured and forced into surrender swimming to the forefront of his mind. _Who's the loser now, Francey-pants? _"Britain ran back to that little island of his - bloody inconvenient, that Channel - but he won't be able to hold us off for long. And Japan's pretty much got East Asia covered. He was already halfway through China when he joined us."

Hungary's smile returns. "I knew we'd get them back someday. This is like round two, isn't it? A rematch, except this time we're giving them a taste of their own medicine."

Prussia laughs, reaches into his pocket for a cigarette and lights it, taking a long drag. "Damn straight. God, Liza, I've missed this," he sighs, adding to the already thick haze of smoke inside the club. "I honestly thought I was done for after the Great War, you know."

"Me too," she says, and he wonders who she's referring to. "But now it's just like the old days, isn't it?"

Before Prussia can reply, the music begins to transition seamlessly into one of his favourite songs. He jumps to his feet and holds out his hand. "Dance with me?"

She laughs and takes it, and he leads her out onto a dancefloor already almost full of people moving enthusiastically to the steady, thumping bass and the blare of the saxophones and dampened trumpets. Hungary looks at him uncertainly, not sure if she's ready to dance jazz in front of all these people, but Prussia just winks as reassuringly as he can and spins her, lifting her hand far above her head as she twirls and her floor-length skirt dances about her knees.

It becomes easier after that, almost as natural as breathing. They dance as though no-one's watching, like they're back in 1918 and their dancefloor is Prussia's living room and their band exists solely within his gramophone. Once again, and under far more cheerful circumstances this time, they dance a Prussian waltz.

* * *

><p>At thirty minutes past one, Prussia catches a glimpse of his watch and, through a mind now as foggy as the air in the club, realises that it's probably time to get home before people start to worry about them.<p>

Laughing and clinging to each other for balance, they stagger up the stairs and out into the street, the sky just as dark and the air just as bitingly cold as it was earlier that evening. Prussia would give Hungary his jacket again, but removing it would require unlatching his arm from hers and if they do that, one of them is sure to fall over. For some reason, that thought is the funniest thing he's ever heard. Renewed waves of laughter bubble up to the surface, momentarily messing up his balance and forcing him to make a lunge for a nearby streetlamp to keep himself from pitching face-first into the pavement. He clutches it for a moment, trying to figure out which way home is, and Hungary hangs off his arm and laughs so hard she can barely breathe.

It takes them three times as long to get back as it did to get out here in the first place, but they're both having too much fun to care.

"Tell me," says Prussia, finding a gap in the uncontrollable laughter long enough to speak through, "that that wasn't better than that stiff, jumped-up afterparty."

"So much better," she gasps, still holding onto him for balance as though she thinks he has any more control over his equilibrium than she does. "We should... we should get some of them in... in Budapest..."

"Maybe you already have some, if you look hard enough. They like to hide," he says, and the thought of a jazz club peeking out from behind a tree makes him double over in peals of laughter for the hundredth time that night.

"Oh yeah," she giggles, "if Germany asks, where were we?"

He thinks for a moment. "A bar. A bar without jazz," he clarifies.

"Right... a bar. Without jazz. Got it."

She sounds so serious it's funny, and they're still clutching each other and laughing uproariously when a voice echoes down the empty, frost-covered street.

"Prussia! Hungary! Is that you?"

He looks; eight clones of Germany are walking towards them, an identical disapproving expression on each of their faces. He blinks and the eight become four, which then resolve themselves into one, albeit a little fuzzy, version of his brother.

"West!" He raises an arm to wave at him. "We were just talking about you."

"Where have you been?" he demands, reaching them and standing with his arms crossed. But, as he sees Prussia swaying dangerously on the spot and Hungary clinging to him and giggling manically, the look on his face becomes one part disapproving, one part concerned and perhaps one tiny little part amused. "You just disappeared without warning. No-one had a clue where you were. Everyone was really worried about you!"

"Oh, lighten up, _Nemetorszag_," grins Hungary. "We were just at... at... a bar. Just a bar."

"Your parties are boring," he adds, and the two of them dissolve into giggles once again.

The tiniest hint of what might have been a smile tugs at Germany's mouth. "Come on, let's get you home. You're in no state to be out here."

"No, wait," says Prussia, holding up a hand to stop his brother in his tracks. "You... you tell her what's going to happen."

"Pardon?"

"Last time I couldn't tell her," he says, as though this explains everything. "Last time she asked, I didn't know what was going to happen. But you know... you know how this ends. You tell her."

"I can't tell the future, Prussia."

He sighs. "Fine then, I'll do it. Liza?"

Hungary looks up at him, swaying where she stands. "Yeah?"

"I promise you... I promise you we'll win this war. I know we will. I promise you I'll make you just as powerful as you were. I promise none of us will die. I promise we'll come out of this just as strong... No wait, stronger, than we've ever been. I promise you we'll win."

She smiles a lopsided smile and reaches up to brush an unruly strand of white hair off his forehead. "I know we will."

Germany is tapping his foot, watching them with a mixture of amusement and impatience now. "If you two are finished making predictions, I should really get you home."

"Right," says Hungary. She turns to follow him and loses her balance, tips sideways towards the curb. Prussia's reflexes kick in almost as quickly as they do when he's sober; he darts forwards and grabs her, using her own momentum to swing her back onto her feet.

And then, as quickly as the flurry of movement began, it stops. She's very close. He can see the green of her eyes, smell the smoke and alcohol on her breath. His arms are around her waist and her hands are resting on his chest.

There doesn't appear to be any other logical course of action. Without consciously deciding to do so, without even thinking about Germany barely feet away from them, he leans down and kisses her. Her lips are hot and forceful as she kisses him back, her hands leaving his chest to wrap around his neck, and he holds her as tightly as he can and kisses her like he's never kissed before because Goddamn it, it's been _so long _and it feels _so good _and she's _so beautiful_.

Time seems to have broken, but it can't have been much more than a few seconds before Germany's hands are on their shoulders and pushing them firmly apart. "Okay," he says, and there's no doubt about it, he's definitely smiling now, "now is not the time or the place. Let's all just calm down and go home, and you can think about this again once you've had a good night's sleep. If you can remember it, of course," he adds under his breath.

Sleep? He doesn't want to sleep. He's wide awake, more so than he's been in decades. He's about to tell him so when Hungary, seemingly having entirely different ideas to his own, pitches forwards into Germany and just has time to cling onto his shoulders before her eyes flutter closed and she slides unceremoniously down towards the pavement.

Prussia makes a move to grab her, but Germany puts an arm out to stop him before picking her up and placing her as gently as he can manage over his shoulder. "Home," he says firmly, and suddenly home sounds like a fine idea.

One of his arms in Germany's for balance, they start unsteadily back up the street.


	13. Back to Bavaria

**Warning: This chapter has to do with the Holocaust and might be somewhat distressing to people who are sensitive to that sort of thing. Just a heads-up.**

* * *

><p><strong>1943 - Bavaria, Germany<strong>

The car trundles through the countryside, the wheels alone making more noise than the four passengers put together.

The silence has long since come out the other end of awkward and become downright boring. To give them their due, the SS men did try to strike up conversation at the beginning of the trip, but gave up after their attempts at small talk were cut short by monosyllabic answers or, failing even that, just uninterested grunts. Prussia doesn't want to be here and he isn't afraid to let them know it. He's spent most of the journey in the passenger seat with his feet propped up on the dashboard and an endless succession of cigarettes dangling from his mouth. His jacket is wrapped around him to guard against the wind - it's too cold to have the windows open, but after the haze of smoke inside the car became so thick it obscured the windscreen they had had no choice. The SS men are model Nazis and have barely touched a cigarette in their lives, and watching their discomfort is one of his only forms of entertainment throughout this pointless journey.

_This is all West's fault._

Just two days before, he had pushed open the door to Germany's office and given the obligatory salute and 'heil Hitler'. It was annoying, to be perfectly honest, but Germany had started to refuse to participate in any conversation that didn't begin with those formalities and he had learnt that trying to get around it wasn't worth the effort. "What do you want?"

Germany was hunched over his office desk, working as hard as ever despite the fact that it was almost midnight. His usually slicked-back blond hair was standing on end after he'd raked his fingers through it a thousand times, his skin was even paler than usual and he had two large dark circles under his eyes, remnants of months of worry, overwork and sleepless nights. Even his office wasn't as meticulously clean as usual; loose papers littered the desk, empty coffee cups were scattered across every flat surface and boxes of unpacked furniture and possessions still stood stacked against the walls. After their old house had been bombed out by Britain's air force, this new one had been quickly prepared for them right next to the governmental centre of Berlin. This was certainly far more convenient, but the lack of a piano was driving Austria mad and boxes of belongings recovered from the rubble still tripped him every time he walked down the hallway.

Germany wouldn't admit it, but Prussia could tell the war was going badly. Their early charge had been halted and now they were on the back foot. Invading Britain had turned out to be much harder than either of them could have expected, and now the stubborn_ arschloch_'s Royal Air Force had made mincemeat of the Luftwaffe. Japan had taken things into his own hands and bombed Pearl Harbour, which had brought that unduly powerful new nation America into the war with a vengeance. And as if that wasn't enough to deal with, their troops in the east were being thoroughly rerouted and pushed back by Russia's seemingly endless army. That coupled with the fact that their spies informed them that Britain and America were going to try to invade the virtually undefended Greece very soon meant that Germany had been tired, stressed and snappy, and Prussia's arguments at being stuck with boring, pointless jobs fell on unforgiving and impatient ears.

"Prussia?" Germany spun around in his chair in surprise, as though he hadn't just called him only minutes before.

"The one and only."

"I have another job for you," he said, stretching out his hands to get rid of the cramps that came from clutching a pen for hours on end. "I'm heading to Stalingrad tomorrow morning to oversee the city's defence. The troops aren't doing so well and it's of the utmost importance that Stalingrad is held at all costs."

Prussia straightened up, excitement beginning to pulse through him. Stalingrad? An actual battle! He had been pulled from the front line over a year ago and forced to do jobs that slowly decreased in importance and entertainment value; the most conflict he'd seen since was the bombing of their old house, and he was itching to be part of the action again. The last assignment he'd been given was helping to coordinate the distribution of field rations on the Eastern front, which was, all things considered, the worst job ever. This was almost too good to be true. "You want me to come to Stalingrad?"

Germany looked at him as though wondering where he got that ridiculous idea from. "Of course not. I don't see any reason why we both need to go. No, I have something different for you to do."

Prussia deflated, all the excitement draining away as quickly as it had welled up. Of course. "What is it?" he asked, his voice flat.

"There's a labour camp producing Messerschmidt fighters and ballistic missiles that hasn't met its quota for two months running now. Kaufering, it's called; it's one of the subsidiaries of Dachau. Down in Bavaria, near Munich. You like Munich, don't you?"

If Germany had expected the proximity to Munich to cheer him up, he was mistaken. "I don't want to go and tell some workers to hurry up, I want to fight! Why don't you trust me with any of the good jobs?"

"This is a good job," he said, looking almost confused that Prussia wouldn't be honoured by this opportunity. "We need fighter planes and missiles. It's a serious contribution to the war effort."

"Send Austria, then! Let me come to Stalingrad!"

"You aren't needed there," he said, his voice calm but firm.

"Oh, and you are?" snorted Prussia. "You know what the difference is between you and me, West?_ I've won wars before._ I was an empire long before you, remember? If anyone can help you with Russia-"

"This conversation is over," Germany snapped, turning his back to him and picking up his pen. "I'm too tired to argue with you. You're going to Bavaria and that's final."

"What if I don't want to go to Bavaria?"

Germany's voice was uncharacteristically cold as he said, "Then you'll end up there anyway, one way or another. Your choice."

But both of them knew that there was really no choice at all.

The car turns into a driveway, passes through a gate guarded by camp staff and pulls up in a wide parking area. The three SS men clamber out, glad to be back out in the fresh air and away from the oppressing silence, and Prussia follows them grudgingly. They're standing next to a barbed wire fence with guards watching them idly from a watchtower nearby. Across an expanse of dirt, hundreds of strange mounds of earth are lined up with pathways linking them together. Prussia eyes it with curiosity; he's never actually been to one of these labour camps before, but somehow he didn't expect them to be so... bleak. The courtyard is covered with frost and, aside from a few guards, entirely empty of people. He didn't know what he'd been anticipating - a active, productive workforce hammering away at a hundred shiny new Messerschmidts? Ballistic missiles rolling off a conveyer belt staffed by hardworking inmates, all ready to be shipped off to Russia? Whatever it was, this isn't it. Before Prussia can wonder where the workers are, a man with dark hair and an impressive moustache - a camp commander, judging by his uniform - greets them; they've been informed of the coming inspection. He shakes hands with each of the SS men and offers it to Prussia, who looks at it for a moment before blowing a plume of smoke into his face and crossing his arms.

_I bet Germany's fighting Russia right now and I'm stuck here in the middle of God-knows-where._

Seemingly unperturbed by his rudeness, the commander says, "I know you're concerned about the productivity of this camp, but I can promise you that it's set to improve dramatically in the coming months. Some of the factories are taking longer to build than we expected and we've had some unforeseen problems with equipment malfunction, but we've already made the necessary repairs."

"Have you considered sabotage?" asks one of the SS men.

"Of course," he says. "It could just have been a start-up issue - the machines were new, after all - but we executed the prisoners under suspicion to be safe. Whether it was sabotage or not, we've solved the problem."

Prussia's eyebrows shoot up, his cigarette almost falling from his mouth as it opens in surprise. "You executed them even though you weren't sure they were saboteurs?"

"Yes, sir," says the commander proudly. "We take no chances at Kaufering."

"Even so, we'd like to see the main facility," says the first SS officer. "That shouldn't be a problem, should it?"

"Where are they?" asks Prussia, looking around as though expecting to see the workers hiding behind those strange grassy mounds. "The dormitories? Are they having a day off or something?"

The commander looks shocked at the implication. "I promise you, sir, we don't have days off here," he says almost pleadingly, as though worried Prussia might file a report accusing him of laziness. "They're working at the moment. Please, follow me."

He leads them off the dirt driveway and down one of the paths. As they draw level with the first row of mounds, he's surprised to see that each one has a small staircase leading down to a door half-submerged beneath the ground. "What are they?" he asks, pointing.

"Prisoner accommodation," says the commander simply.

Prussia blinks. Prisoner accommodation? It must've been difficult to set those up with proper heating and furniture.

They pass the last of the half-buried huts and step out onto another dirt pathway. It passes directly next to the perimeter fence; Prussia eyes the barbed wire and thick mesh as they walk.

"Don't touch it. It'll electrocute you."

Prussia stuffs his hand back into his pocket.

The work area, it turns out, is inside a huge cave in the side of one of the nearby mountains. "This area of the camp is currently constructing underground facilities suitable for the production of Messerschmidt fighters," the commander explains, and Prussia stops listening. They're a little too far away to see inside, but the sides of the cave are too square for it to be a natural formation. This was dug, and he can tell how huge it must be from the massive quantities of dirt and rocks lying in piles to the side. He takes a few steps forwards off the path, the boggy mud squelching under his boots, and peers into the cave.

The commander, seeing his curiosity and not wanting to obstruct their inspection, wastes no time in leading them further inside. The cave opens up into a giant, fluorescent-lit cavern that has to be at least fifty feet tall and just as wide, echoing with the sounds of metal on stone as the workers dig somewhere out of sight. "The production area has to be big," says the commander. "We're going to insulate it with concrete walls at least ten feet thick to protect against air strikes."

The cavern is nothing special. Boring stone walls, a ceiling just as flat as the ones on the buildings outside. But then, just as he's about to turn around and walk out, he looks down.

Below them is what has to be most of the population of Kaufering. Hundreds of moving skeletons are hacking away at the wall with pickaxes as camp staff patrol the perimeter, making sure no-one's slacking off. As he watches, a woman so thin she's painful to look at drops her pickaxe and collapses. One of the guards hurries over to her, but he doesn't pick her up or call in a doctor. He kicks her once, sharply in the ribs, and barks an order that loses clarity as it echoes up to them. When she doesn't move, he draws his gun, places his boot on her back and shoots her.

Prussia stares, frozen and horror-struck, as he drags her body to a hole in the ground. He hadn't looked at it properly before, but now he can't look away as the woman is thrown unceremoniously over the edge. A sickening feeling begins to rise in his stomach, eating slowly away at his insides. He has to know what's in that hole. He knows, but he has to _know_. The commander and the SS men are saying something, but it all fades to a buzzing in his ears as he strides quickly across the viewing platform encircling the cavern walls until he has a good view of the stone pit.

Inside the pit are as many bodies as there are prisoners. Skeletal corpses that collapsed from starvation, punishment or overwork, all emaciated limbs, bony ribcages and unseeing eyes that stare up at him in fear, pain and accusation. The dead of Kaufering, to be covered up with dirt and forgotten about as soon as the commander is ready to build his _verdammt _walls.

He can't look, but he can't tear his eyes away.

Fresh air. That's what he needs. He can't stay here. He needs fresh air or he's going to be sick.

Ignoring the confused looks of the SS and the commander, he spins on his heel and strides back down the tunnel. Once they're back out in the open air, he clutches the side of a dirt-filled truck and blinks hard, trying to force the images out of his head.

Lying there. Staring at him.

He's seen death before. But he's never seen death like this.

That sickening feeling is getting worse, sloshing against the walls of his stomach and threatening to consume him.

Just eyes. Just bones and rags and eyes.

_Our Father, who art in Heaven, hallowed be thy name..._

The world is spinning. Up and down have switched places. Left and right no longer matter.

Footsteps behind him. The sounds of digging, echoing out of the tunnel - can he really hear that or is he just imagining it? He wishes the birds would shut up.

"_We're on the brink of a war even bigger than the last one, and if we survive it then we'll have been accomplices in something terrible."_

Where's Germany? Is he in Stalingrad yet? Does he know about this? Is this what they've been fighting for?

_By Kingdom come, thou will be done, on Earth as it is in Heaven..._

His cigarette has fallen out of his mouth and is smouldering in the dirt. Burning like hellfire.

It's cold. He's noticed it before, but now it's _really fucking cold_. He can't stop shivering. His knees are about to give but he can't stop shivering.

A hand lands on his shoulder. "Hey," says one of the SS men, giving him a concerned look. "Are you alright?"

Prussia opens his mouth to reply but nothing comes out. Without pausing to think, he staggers over to a nearby bush, drops to his knees and empties the contents of his stomach into the leaves. He gives up on words and himself and this war and humanity and vomits over and over again until there's nothing left but bile. Water and mud are soaking through his trousers but all he can do is crouch there retching, trying in vain to suppress his memory and control his gag reflex at the same time.

The SS men lean over him, unsure what to do, as he wipes his mouth on his sleeve and gasps for air. Then he climbs to his feet, unsteady on violently shaking legs. "I... I feel sick," he says. The words feel strange and unfamiliar on his tongue, like he's almost forgotten how to speak. "You... inspect. I'm going to... going to go and wait in the car."

They watch perplexed as he straightens his jacket, turns, and walks away.

* * *

><p><strong>Prisoners at Kaufering were used to a) build missiles and b) hollow out the sides of mountains in order to make bombproof Messerschmidt factories. There isn't much information about how this was done - or at least none that I found - so I had to make up a few details. If you see anything that you know is wrong, please send me a PM and I'll fix it up.<strong>

**A note on Prussia and Nazism: A lot of people seem to picture Prussia as being in favour of the Third Reich because he definitely has more of a sadistic side to him than Germany, but I've never really seen it. Jews were welcomed in Prussia under the reign of Frederick the Great (provided they settled in beneficial regions) and the Prussian nobility were mostly against the Nazi regime. The way I see it, all of his enthusiasm comes from the fact that they ripped up the Treaty of Versailles and built up a crazy awesome military (which, being a former militarily-inclined country, makes him feel secure), and wilful ignorance of the realities occurring right in his peripheral vision.**


	14. On the Back Foot

**1943 - Berlin, Germany**

Germany does not return from Stalingrad for more than a week.

Prussia paces the house, neglecting paperwork and trying desperately to find something to take his mind off the scenes it keeps reverting back to, replaying in front of his eyes like a newsreel. Alcohol works, but the war is taking its toll on Germany and it's much harder to get his hands on it these days. His vinyls are gone and most of the jazz clubs have been ruined by the terrible economy and war rationing. He almost finds himself wishing for Austria's music, but the piano is gone as well. He even tries reading, but Germany's fiction collection is far from impressive. All the half-good books have been burned and all that's left is official records and copies of _Mein Kampf._ Prussia takes it upon himself to burn those as well, while Germany can't catch him.

"_We're on the brink of a war even bigger than the last one, and if we survive it then we'll have been accomplices in something terrible." _Maybe Austria knew what he was talking about after all.

On the eighth day in Berlin with only Austria and unwelcome memories for company, he gets in to find that his brother is finally back.

All the scripts he planned in his head for this confrontation disappear. His brother is in his office and he's going to hear what Prussia has to say whether he's busy or not, whether he has time for it or not, and whether he wants to hear it or not.

"WEST!" he roars, banging open the office door. He storms across the room and, before Germany can react, grabs his shoulder and spins him around so hard he's almost thrown off the chair. "What the _fuck _was that?"

"Was what?" asks Germany. His expression of annoyed bewilderment only serves to fuel the anger that's already pulsing through Prussia like wildfire.

"You told me they were just work camps!" he shouts, almost too outraged to find words. "You told me they were just places to send people you didn't want so they could contribute to the war effort and the economy! Okay, maybe I didn't agree with it, maybe I thought you were an _utter idiot _for going along with something as stupid and messed-up as that, but I was willing to tolerate it! If they were looked after properly then what's the problem, right?" Germany opens his mouth to reply but Prussia cuts him off. "Wrong! Do you have _any idea _what's going on down there?"

"I know that-"

"No! No you don't! You _can't_. You can't. West, you can't know." He's pleading now, begging to be told what he wants - _needs _- to hear. Germany is his brother. His little brother, the serious, hardworking boy that he looked after and taught to fight and watched grow until he was more powerful even than himself. They've had their disagreements, but Germany has always been his brother. "You don't know. Please tell me you don't know. _Please_."

Germany is silent for a moment. They stand as though frozen, a paused scene in a film reel, with Prussia leaning over the chair, his hands still on Germany's shoulders, and Germany pressed backwards as far as he can go in an attempt to escape his brother's shouts. The only things that give it away as real is the colour and Prussia's chest, still rising and falling in gasps, trying to make up for the air he screamed away.

Then Germany's head drops into his hands, his shoulders slump, and, for a moment, he reminds Prussia of Austria sitting broken on the piano bench back in 1938.

Something icy grips his heart.

"No," he says softly, letting go of Germany's shoulders and backing away, staring at him as though he's never seen him properly before. "West..."

"We're in over our heads," he says, and his voice is so cracked and weak it barely sounds like him. "I can't stop it. It's too late."

Prussia's hands ball into fists almost of their own accord. How dare he say that? How dare he let this happen in the first place? How dare he sit there and look so tired and fragile when all Prussia wants to do is beat him to within an inch of his life in a futile attempt to try and make him feel a _fraction _of the pain he's inflicted on others?

Germany rakes his fingers through his hair and lifts his head to stare at him with blank, hopeless blue eyes. "We're losing."

Prussia stares back, his own red eyes suddenly wide. "No we aren't. We can't be. We're just on the back foot, that's all, we can recover and-"

"No we can't. Russia took Stalingrad and he's coming. Britain and America are about to invade and we can't stop them. We'd need a miracle."

On any other occasion, Prussia would pray for just that. But a God that would help him after what he's been party to isn't a God he wants to pray to. "What... what about Hungary?"

At those words, a modicum of strength seems to return to Germany. He sits up a little straighter and says, "Ah. I was intending to speak to you about her."

"Yeah?" he asks, suddenly anxious.

Germany sighs and almost breaks eye contact. "We have reason to believe she's entered into secret peace negotiations with the Allies."

Prussia stares.

"But," he says, "there are certain higher-ups who believe a miracle is possible, but much less likely if we lose Budapest to Russia."

"I'll speak to her," says Prussia quickly. "I'll talk her out of-"

"I'm afraid they don't believe talking is the answer. There are plans to invade Budapest as soon as possible."

"No!" His hands are fists again, and this slightly more empowered Germany suddenly looks like a much better target. "We can't! Just let me telephone her! We can't just-"

"You're overreacting," he says calmly. "It doesn't have to be violent. Look at Iceland - Britain temporarily invaded him to stop us from getting there first and not a single person died. I don't even think he's that upset." Prussia doesn't look convinced. "Look, I'll even let you come. In fact, I'd like you to come - she trusts you. She'll be better disposed to the occupation if you're there."

"West, you're talking about an _invasion_," he says, still struggling to comprehend this idea. "You're asking me to invade Hungary. I don't think I can do that."

"It's for her own safety," says Germany. "I was in Stalingrad. I've seen what Russia does to people he defeats. I can't guarantee she'll take it well at first, but once she understands... You're saving her. Whether you think you can invade her or not, I can tell you right now that it'll be far worse for her if we don't."

Prussia stares at him. The worst part about this entire idea - worse than the backstabbing, the betrayal of trust and the treachery towards his oldest and best friend - is that it makes sense. If Germany's telling the truth, and his eyes tell him that he is despite how much he desperately wants to believe he's lying, then they would be helping Hungary. She'll see that, won't she? She'll understand if he explains it to her. It'll be quick and bloodless and they'll leave after the end of the war, after they've rescued her from Russia. Surely she'd rather be invaded by him and Germany than by that psychopath?

He sighs and sinks down into one of the nearby office chairs. "I can't believe you actually convinced me to do this."

"We're in this now, aren't we?" Germany says. "Whether we like it or not, we still have to fight."

Prussia nods. They still have to fight. They owe it to the people they've killed and the people that died for them to keep fighting to the last, even if they did have the authority to make the decision to surrender. His brother is Germany, and while Germany fights, his brother fights. While his brother fights, Prussia fights. That's just the way it is. For better or for worse, whether the outcome can possibly turn in their favour or not, they still have to try.

* * *

><p><strong>If you've read this far and you liked it, please leave a review. I'd really like to know what you guys think.<strong>


	15. Houseguests

**1944 - Salzburg, Austria**

Schloss Klessheim manor is a masterpiece of Baroque architecture and had for many years been the summer home of the Archbishops of Salzburg, and after that the permanent residence of members of the House of Habsburg-Lorraine. It was one of Austria's finest castles; now, of course, it is one of Germany's finest castles, and a succession of important political guests have been offered accommodation here over the course of the war. Deals have been brokered and agreements negotiated between some of the most powerful men in Europe right under this exquisitely built roof.

Germany, Austria and Prussia stand in the marble entrance hall. None of them speak. Austria is standing stock-still, Germany is straightening his tie as though sure it must've gone askew in the thirty seconds since he last checked it and Prussia is shifting from foot to foot and fidgeting.

"Remember, you can't tell her anything," says Germany suddenly, breaking the silence. "Nothing at all. We can break the news of the invasion after it's over. We don't need her getting upset and causing unnecessary conflict until the country is secure. Am I understood?"

"Nope," says Prussia. "Not yet. You might have to explain that to me another fifty times."

Austria gives him a sharp look. "It's understood."

Germany nods once, and as if on cue the sound of an engine comes drifting in from outside. "They're here," he says, somewhat unnecessarily.

The three of them head out onto the front steps in time to see an expensive black car pull up outside the manor. A chauffeur jumps out and opens the back doors; a dark-haired man who Prussia recognises as Hungary's leader Miklos Horthy climbs out and offers his arm to assist Hungary herself. She's wearing a long black coat and appears to be all legs as she unfolds herself from the car and smiles broadly at the three nations gathered on the steps.

"Welcome to Schloss Klessheim," says Germany, shaking hands with Horthy and then Hungary. "I trust your journey was comfortable?"

"It was fine, thank you," says Hungary.

"My leader will be here shortly to speak with you. In the meantime, I'm sure you must want to rest. I'll show you to your room. Prussia, would you take Hungary? You know where she's staying, don't you?"

Prussia nods and holds his arm out; Hungary takes it and, together, they head back inside the manor.

"I haven't seen you in ages," she says, as they head across the marble entrance hall. "How are you?"

He shrugs. "Fine. Germany's been a right _arschloch_, though - he's all stressed because of the war and he won't let me fight any more. I'm stuck doing clerical work and..." He blinks, refusing to let his thoughts stray up to Bavaria. "And stuff like that."

"Really?" She pulls a face. "How boring. I've been... keeping busy."

_Keeping busy trying to make friends with Russia_, he thinks, and something catches in his chest. Something remarkably like guilt. But that's ridiculous - this invasion is the best thing for her. She'll thank him for it in the long run. He just wishes they didn't have to go behind her back to do it.

"We've got heating in here," he says, as they reach the door to the cloakroom. "You don't want to go wearing that thing inside or you'll boil to death."

She nods and quickly begins to undo her coat buttons. As she slips it off her shoulders and places it in his outstretched hand, he gets a look at her dress for the first time. It's the most perfect shade of emerald green with a long skirt, almost floor-length, and capped sleeves, and it looks somewhat familiar but he can't quite put his finger on why.

"Gil?" she asks, raising an eyebrow. He snaps back to reality and sets about hanging her coat up in the cloakroom. He's probably seen something similar somewhere else. Capped sleeves are in fashion at the moment and green is hardly an uncommon colour, especially in Hungary's wardrobe.

"How are things in Budapest?" he asks her, once they've set off across the main hall towards the wide marble staircase.

"Oh, same as ever," she says, and he can't tell if she's lying or not. "The war's been a bit unkind to us recently, but I'm sure we'll be alright."

They chat idly as they climb the stairs, covering a variety of uninteresting and unimportant topics that serve only to keep the conversation from descending into awkward silence. All he can think about is the German troops that could be marching across her border right now, and her strained smiles and insincere laughter tells him that her peace agreement with the Allies is at the forefront of her mind. They've never really kept secrets from each other before, and it's an unpleasant experience.

He takes her down corridors and up more staircases until they finally reach the room picked out and prepared for Hungary. It's an opulently furnished bedroom with velvet curtains, a four-poster bed with silk sheets and an en-suite bathroom. However, for reasons Prussia doesn't entirely understand, it also has a small step as you enter the room. It's barely six inches high and fully carpeted, making it almost invisible from the corridor, and it's for that reason that he forgets to warn her about it. She steps across the threshold and her back foot catches on the slight elevation, knocking her off balance and sending her falling fast towards the carpet.

Prussia reacts instantly. He reaches out, catches her around the waist and uses her own momentum to swing her back onto her feet. And, as he does so, something sparks in a dully-lit, cobweb-littered back section of his memory. A strange and inexplicable sense of _deja-vu_ grips him and, from Hungary's expression, he can see that she's experiencing it too.

And then the combination of the emerald green, cap-sleeved dress, the movement of catching her and the position in which they're standing frozen - his arms around her waist, her hands on his chest - connect in his brain in just the right way.

He remembers the jazz club, the dancing and the few too many drinks. He remembers staggering home, clinging to each other for balance and laughing hysterically at nothing. He remembers catching her and kissing her and promising her the world.

Only he can't give her the world. Back then it was theirs for the taking, to storm across and conquer and paint red, white and black. He lied to her, made promises he couldn't keep, and now he's going to have to let her down.

"Gil..." she says slowly, and he can tell that she doesn't remember like he does. "Are you okay?"

"I don't know if we can win," he blurts out suddenly. "I don't know if I can make you as strong as you were. I don't know if we'll come out of this better or worse. I don't even know if we'll survive. I'm sorry. I can't promise you anything."

"That's okay. I knew what I was getting into."

She doesn't understand. She _has _to understand. "Russia took Stalingrad. America and Britain are invading - we thought it was Greece but it was Italy, and now he's almost completely undefended. They're coming and I don't know if we can stop them."

"It's alright, Gil," she says, looking confused and vaguely concerned. "I know."

"I won't let Russia take you," he says, determination suddenly flooding through him. Russia can have him, he can have the whole of Germany if he wants, but he can't have her. "You can't hand yourself over to him. Promise me you'll change your mind."

It's not until he feels her freeze in his arms that he realises what he's just let slip.

"How... How do you know that?" she asks, drawing back to look him straight in the eye.

His mind blanks. Panic sets in, clawing at his chest and seizing all rational thought. "I... I just... I don't... Germany's spies found out."

"You have spies in Budapest?" she breathes. The shock and betrayal on her face is enough to cause his stomach to drop at least three feet.

"They're not mine! They're Germany's!"

"But you didn't tell me?" She's looking at him accusingly now, stepping away from him with her eyebrows furrowed.

"I... I didn't think it was that big a deal! They weren't sabotaging you or anything, they were just-"

"Just what? Sending reports back to you full of my private information? Finding out my secrets?"

"Hey, I don't make the decisions! I just have to do whatever Germany says! Do you think _I'd_ try and invade you? No! It's all..." His voice trails away as he sees the horror dawning on Hungary's face and, for the second time, realises with creeping dread what he's just let come out of his mouth.

Her eyes widen, and in that instant Prussia knows he's Done It Now, he's Put His Foot In It and it's All Over. "What."

He flounders. "I... It's just..."

There's something smouldering in her eyes. A careless match thrown into a pile of leaves, ready to burst into flame and ignite a blazing wildfire at any moment. "Just?"

Prussia's mouth opens and closes soundlessly as he curses Germany's plan, his own stupidity and everything else he can think of. "Okay," he says finally. "Alright, please don't be angry. While you and Horthy are here negotiating, we have a plan to occupy your country. It's completely peaceful - no bloodshed, just a precaution to make sure you don't surrender to Russia." He wishes her expression would change. She's just staring and staring and it's terrifying him. "I wasn't supposed to tell you until it's over, but I just... I don't know, you..."

And then, without warning, the forest catches fire and her eyes are burning into him like iron brands. "You're _invading _me?" she shouts, her hands balling into fists. "We're supposed to be allies!"

"I told you, it wasn't my idea!" He's backing away now, his hands held up defensively in front of him. "I didn't even want to go along with it!"

"But Germany told you to, did he?" she spits. "You're pathetic! Why don't you grow a backbone and stick up for yourself for once in your godforsaken life?"

"Hey!" His own voice is rising in volume. "I almost punched him in the face! But there's only so much I can do when-"

"When you're just a worthless failure of a nation? When you're too weak to even have your own _borders _anymore?" she shrieks, advancing on him with her fists raised.

It's a low blow and it snaps the fragile grip on his temper, sending anger coursing through him like floodwaters. "Oh, now you're starting to sound like Austria! I should've known he'd rub off on you!"

"Maybe he was right to spend all that time fighting you! Maybe he saw you for the backstabbing coward you are!"

"_I'm_ the coward?" he almost laughs. "I'm not the one who only joined the Axis to get big friends to help in petty squabbles with Romania! I'm not the one who-"

"You didn't get a choice in joining the Axis! You got dragged into it because you're too powerless to do anything about it and too deeply in denial to admit it!"

How dare she? How dare she blame him for this when it was Germany's idea in the first place? How dare she call him worthless and pathetic and powerless and all the things he's been trying so hard not to call himself? He's still finding words to express his utter fury when the door bangs open and Germany storms into the room, followed closely by Austria. "What are you two shouting about? We can hear you all through the manor!"

"YOU!" shrieks Hungary. "How _could_ you? If this is how you treat your allies then-"

Germany turns on Prussia before she's even finished her sentence. "You _told _her?"

"I didn't mean to! It just slipped out!"

"It's a top-secret military operation! It can't just _slip out_!"

"If you'd just let me tell her in the first place then maybe-"

"Everybody _shut up_!"

And everybody does. They all turn to face Austria, who seems to have swelled to twice his normal size. It's the first time Prussia's heard him shout since he broke his piano.

"Hungary," he says, the volume of his voice back to normal now. "I deeply apologise for any inconvenience this may cause you, but I can assure you that we mean no harm. It's just an extra precaution against Russia's armies advancing from the east-"

"And that makes it okay to just march on in here, does it?" she yells back at him. "I should've known! You three with all your Germanic self-importance have just been taking everywhere else you feel like in Europe, so why did I think I'd be any different? You make me sick. I don't know why I ever married you."

Something inside Austria seems to snap, and this time it doesn't break him. "Probably because you were forced to? Though I don't know why you went along with it when you clearly just wanted to marry _him_."

Hungary's tirade stops in its tracks. She looks confused for a moment, then follows his glare to Prussia and back again. "What? How do you-" She pauses, horrorstruck, and reads the answer from the furious look on his face. "You didn't," she breathes. "How much did you tell him?"

He refuses to feel sorry. "Everything."

Austria nods. "Before our marriage, after our marriage, even while it was still official. I admit, Elizabeta, for a few decades there I actually thought you could stand to be around me."

She mouths his words silently back to him, too shocked and outraged to put together a coherent answer. "Okay," she says, and her voice is quiet like a tiger is quiet before it pounces on its prey. "It's clear that _someone _has been bending the truth here." _Someone _crosses his arms and glares at her. "Before the marriage... that bit's true. I was just scared because everything was changing and he was there and... I'm sorry for not telling you at the time. After the marriage was under similar circumstances. I'd just lost the war and almost all my money and my house and you... But _during _the marriage," she flashes a look of pure hatred at Prussia, "absolutely _nothing _happened. Nothing. There was one kiss - _one _- and I slapped him for it. Whatever else he told you was a flat-out lie."

Now everyone is staring at Prussia. He stares back defiantly, anger still dictating his words for him. "Well what was I supposed to tell him? He was being an _arschloch_!"

"You cut my piano strings!"

"You wouldn't stop playing it!"

Germany, who seems to be losing patience with the sudden change in topic, holds his hands out for silence. "Stop arguing, you two! And Hungary, Austria's right. It's just a precaution. If we don't occupy you then Russia will, and I can assure you that we're far better houseguests than he is."

"_Houseguests_? You call marching into my country against my will being _houseguests_? I was only negotiating an armistice in the first place because you three dragged me into another war you can't win!"

"_I _didn't drag you into it!" Prussia shouts back. "You just wanted to join the side that looked strongest!"

"If that was the case then I'd never have picked you! You're just a powerless wreck past his glory days whose massive ego is the only thing keeping him alive! I don't know what I ever saw in you!"

He can barely think straight. Something hot and furious is fogging up his brain, stealing the coherence from his mind and the thought from his actions. "Fine! Leave, then! You deserve everything Russia does to you!"

He hardly has time to notice the tensing of her muscles before a fist cracks him across the jaw with surprising strength for someone as slim as Hungary. Taken by surprise, he reels backwards, trips over a footstool and crashes to the floor. He brings his arms up to his face, ready to defend himself, but the next blow never comes. He pushes himself into a sitting position to see Hungary struggling and writhing against Germany and Austria, who have each grabbed one of her arms and are enduring a barrage of kicks and insults in rapid Hungarian.

"Don't you dare follow!" Germany shouts at him, and both he and Austria are needed to drag her from the room. The door slams shut behind them.

Prussia scrambles to his feet and stares at it, still breathing hard, his fists clenched. He can hear death threats receding down the corridor, bangs and crashes as flailing limbs hit walls and break furnishings, and then silence.

She's gone.

Complete, utter and overwhelming despair take him by surprise, attacking and occupying his brain before he has a chance to try and fight it off. She's gone. She's actually gone this time and she'll never come back, and it's all his fault.

He collapses backwards onto her bed and covers his face with his hands. _You complete, utter _dummkopf. _You've ruined everything._

He's lost the war. He's lost Hungary. He's lost his country and his pride and his independence and everything he once held dear. Maybe she's right. Maybe he really is a powerless wreck past his glory days. Maybe he should just keel over and die. It'd save everyone the trouble of having to worry about him.

He would speak to God, but he's sure that God wouldn't want to speak to him.

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><p><strong>I swear this story is taking over my brain. I've already added about four chapters that were never supposed to be there. I'm really enjoying it, though - I get far too emotionally attached to characters...<strong>

**By the way, this totally happened in real life, more or less. Look up Operation Margarethe. Hitler basically invited Horthy to Schloss Klessheim and occupied his country while he wasn't looking. I don't blame Hungary for being just a little upset by that.**

**Please leave a review if you liked it! I'd really like to hear some more opinions on where this is going.**


	16. False Hope

It's probably waaay too late to add a bonus chapter but look who doesn't care! ^_^

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><p><strong>1944 - Berlin, Germany<strong>

Germany has disappeared again, but Prussia doesn't know where to. He didn't ask to come this time. He suspects he could find answers if he really wanted to, reports of the war unfiltered through government censors and propaganda, but he doesn't see what difference it could make. Whether he's ignorant or not, the fact remains that he is stuck in Berlin with Austria, Germany is out there in the field, and they're running out of places to defend.

Austria has stopped playing the piano. Only a few weeks ago he would've been ecstatic at this development, but he's surprised to find himself used to the music now, a constant undercurrent of steady beats and rhythms bringing order to the chaos that this whole ordeal has become. There are no more arguments. The house passes each day in the sort of silence that could never quite be peaceful. It's a silence that highlights the absence of sound. A silence that waits for something.

The bombs are near enough the only things to break the silence. They come frequently, regularly, turning a grey, subdued city into a writhing mass of fire and explosions burning bright against the horizon. A man comes to inspect their basement and advises them that it isn't deep enough to serve as a proper shelter but they head down there anyway each time the air raid sirens drone. Prussia hates the confined darkness and the stale air even more than being stuck in a hole alone with Austria. He almost wants to climb onto the roof and watch the bombs fall, to be deafened by the explosions and blinded by the light, but he isn't quite that mad yet.

Three weeks and four days after Germany's disappearance, the air raid begins earlier than usual, before Prussia even has a chance to kid himself that he might get to sleep that night. Austria is already there when he shuts the door behind him, climbs down the stairs and slumps defeatedly into a corner. He flashes a glare at the other nation, who has the nerve to be watching him, and digs inside his pocket for a carton of cigarettes and a lighter.

"You know you shouldn't do that at night," says Austria as he flicks the flint wheel, sparking a tongue of flame that seems brighter in the gloom of the basement.

"Like I care," he snaps. The blackout can't possibly apply down here. The _verdammt_ Allied pilots can't see through the floor and besides, they've already found the city well enough without the help of his lighter. It's just that Austria doesn't want him smoking in a space this enclosed. Well, too bad. Berlin is going to burn, people are going to die and he is going to smoke whether Austria likes it or not.

There's a dry and resentful note to Austria's voice, as though he believes this is all Prussia's fault. Prussia would take offence if part of him wasn't already in agreement. "Then at least let me have one too."

Prussia raises an eyebrow, then shrugs and tosses him the packet and lighter. Austria removes one delicately, places it between his lips and lights it. They sit, breathing smoke and listening to the distant drone of the siren, as the first Allied bombers glide into Berlin.

"I know what you want," says Prussia suddenly. His voice is loud and hollow against the near-silence.

Austria looks up. "Do you? What do I want, then?"

"You want me to say that you were right. But you can stuff it, Specks, because that isn't going to happen."

Austria sighs and removes his glasses, polishing them carefully with his sleeve, careful not to drop ash onto the glass. "Honestly, I never thought it would."

"Good." They sit in silence for another few moments. Austria's glasses are returned to his nose looking no cleaner than they had before. Smoke dissipates slowly into the darkness. "But if I was," he says finally, "I would admit that this whole thing was a really shitty idea."

"That would be an understatement."

Prussia scowls and stubs out his cigarette as though he blames it for something. "This whole century's just been one shitty idea after another, hasn't it?"

"I do believe it has." Austria inspects his fingers, laced together. They're longer and slimmer than Prussia's, the only calluses from holding down the strings of a violin. A musician's fingers. He remembers how they were always perfectly maintained, nails kept trimmed and cleaned as though he took pride in them and what they could create with strings and keys and just the right vibrations. But there's no place for a musician's fingers here and Prussia can see that he knows it, so he sighs again and says dully, "For me more than most."

Prussia doesn't laugh, but the rough snort of stale shelter air could be mistaken for one. "Don't hog all the credit."

"I did start the First World War."

"And I started the second one, so I guess we're even, huh?"

If Prussia's snort wasn't a laugh, then Austria's hopeless little twitch of the mouth wasn't a smile. "That was Ludwig."

"And I didn't lift a finger to stop him. Hell, I encouraged him."

Austria is watching him now, pupils dilated in the darkness. "Why was that?"

"Jesus," he says, "you remember what it was like. They might have been blaming us but I know you didn't exactly get off with a slap on the wrist and a warning not to do it again. We were starving. We had no economy, no way of recovering. People would cart money down the street in wheelbarrows and still not be able to afford food. The Treaty of Versailles was supposed to be a way to redeem ourselves, but it wasn't a second chance. It was a death sentence. And that's before I even get to the military - it didn't exist, and we were hardly unthreatened. I've..." he pauses, searching for words. "I've never not had a military before. It's kind of my thing, you of all people should know that."

Something sharp flashes in Austria's eyes. "Gilb-"

"Okay, low blow, I'm sorry. But it's true. I've never felt that vulnerable before. Or that humiliated, to be honest. So when a guy comes along offering to rip up the treaty that's basically been making you everyone's bitch for the past decade and a half, rebuild your army and reclaim some fraction of who you used to be, you get on board with that shit. Even if it means overlooking some of the less wonderful parts of what he's saying."

"I see." His own cigarette is finished now; he stubs out the end with considerably more delicacy than Prussia and the orange glow goes out. "And Poland?"

"That wasn't my decision."

"I don't recall you getting too upset over it."

"Well, we do have history."

Austria nods slowly. "You spent most of the Middle Ages as his subordinate."

Prussia's defenses, momentarily lowered, slam back into place. "Excuse me, but that depends on how you define the 'Middle Ages', okay?" he spits. "And that was only half of me."

"The other half was only unofficially his subordinate." Austria seems completely unruffled, as though he hasn't even noticed the change in Prussia's demeanour. A few moments of threatening silence pass before he sits back and says, "I'm sorry. I was under the impression that we were trading 'low blows'. You were saying?"

"I was _saying_ that it felt pretty damn good to watch him squirm."

Austria raises an eyebrow. "'Squirm'?"

"That's generally what people do when you roll Panzers over their border and more or less raze their capital city in a month."

"Your mindset honestly disturbs me sometimes."

"Shucks, Specks, don't make me blush."

There's another long silence. Neither of them look at each other. Austria stares at his feet and Prussia busies himself finding and lighting another cigarette, both pretending not to listen to the drone of Allied bombers still clearly audible from the shelter. Every now and then an explosion shakes the ground, but none too close. Their house may just survive this time. Prussia wonders if it isn't cowardly, sitting hidden away here while Berlin burns, but what could they do? Germany's given him no authority over home defence. Maybe after the all-clear is sounded and people begin to emerge he can help put out fires or something. Right now he counts as one person and one person only, as alien as that may feel to him, and he knows deep down that any difference he could make would be negligible.

It's Austria who speaks first. "Aren't you going to ask about Serbia?"

Prussia looks at him. "Why would I?"

"You just told me about Poland. You aren't usually one to chat about your feelings just for the sake of it."

"I know about Serbia," he says. "Elizabeta told me."

Austria is altogether too casual as he asks, "When?"

"In a letter a week or so before the invasion. Just a letter. Don't look at me like that, it's not like it was freaking pillow talk or anything. I thought we cleared that up."

Austria lowers his head apologetically. "Sorry. What did she tell you?"

"She wasn't certain, but she said she thought it was a power thing. Your empire was unstable and you wanted to crush Serbia and hold him up as an example to the others, consequences be damned. See, this is why I was always better at this than you. The trick is to make them _part _of you, not just satellite states, because then who can they rebel against? And actually throwing them a bone once in a blue moon helps too."

"Your advice is, as always, greatly appreciated," sighs Austria. He's quiet for a moment, considering Prussia's words, turning each one over in his head and examining it for accuracy. "On the surface, she's right."

"On the surface?"

"It's like you're so fond of reminding me," he says. "I'm not the strongest nation in the world and I never have been. I earned my empire by outsmarting and outmanoeuvring my opponents, not by fighting them. I won through intelligence, and there was always a part of me that wondered if that really counted as winning at all. If maybe fighting was the way of things and somehow I was cheating. I spent every day expecting the world to turn around and realise that I was weak and unworthy of the power I had. So... maybe I became slightly paranoid." The shelter is shaken by another explosion, this one entirely too close to home. Austria pauses, recollects himself. "The more my empire expanded, the worse it became. The constant feeling that I wasn't good enough, that I was just maintaining a facade of competence when underneath I had no right to hold power. That's why Serbia was so important to me. I didn't even like him, but if I let him get away with it, if I showed the world a chink in my proverbial armour... I believe that's why Elizabeta asked for independence after the war. I stopped letting people get close to me. I was terrified that one day I'd let something slip and she'd see how unworthy I truly was of every idea she had of me."

Prussia blinks at him, taken completely by surprise. The great Roderich Edelstein of all people considered himself unworthy? That possibility has never occurred to him before, not once. His memories are all of Austria in his pretentious suits, talking pretentiously to pretentious people at pretentious little balls and dinner parties that Prussia was rarely invited to and almost never cared about. One of his most solid, unchallenged ideas about the universe is that Roderich Edelstein considers himself the greatest thing since the eight-octave piano, so he bites down a little too hard on his cigarette and says, "That's ridiculous."

Austria shrugs. "It's how it was."

"But she never thought you were unworthy. She always defended you to me. It got a bit annoying, actually."

"I don't think she'll be defending either of us any more."

Something cold and heavy drops into Prussia's chest, constricting his heart with clammy tendrils. He feels sick. He remembers the hurt and betrayal in her expression, her fist slamming into his jaw, and it's all he can do not to bury his face in his hands. "I knew the invasion was a bad idea." He tries to keep his voice steady and half-succeeds. "I told West, I _told_ him, but no, he never listens to me these days. You'd think I was the inexperienced one. I offered to call, to explain everything to her... I know she'd have understood! I just wish we hadn't... that we'd..."

"You really care about her, don't you?"

"What?"

"I always knew you two weren't just old hunting partners. No, really - I do happen to be rather good at reading people, you know. I thought perhaps the two of you were just better friends than the situation warranted, but..." It's his voice that trails away this time. His eyes glaze over, watching something that Prussia can't see.

"'S not like it matters." The words come out a little more venomous than he intended.

"That may not be true," says Austria. "Our lifetimes are long. We can be trying to kill each other one moment and allies again the next. The world never stops moving, and we have to move with it."

"...We _invaded Budapest_." And _he's_ still a real country. It's fine for _him_ to start talking about lifespans and a world that cares whether you move or not.

Austria considers him with an unfathomable expression on his face before adding, "She defended you to me as well."

"Really?"

He nods.

"Whose side was she _on_?"

"Honestly, I'm not certain that she knows. Elizabeta has never been entirely sure of herself."

Prussia wrinkles his nose in disbelief. Hungary is one of the most confident people he's ever met. He remembers her self-assured grin as she faces him across the battlefield, her good-natured insults, her sure footing and easy laugh as she dances with him. "What are you talking about?"

"Ah," says Austria quietly. "You haven't noticed. I should've guessed." It's an observation, a confirmation of character, and not an insult. "Elizabeta has always been different," he explains. "I'm sure you've noticed that. Her gender is only the beginning. Language, culture, ethnicity... she is unique in a way that few others can claim to be. So she has never had anyone to compare herself to. She has no way of knowing what she should be doing, whether or not she's on the right track, who she is or what she should strive to be. She's lost. She has always been lost." He goes quiet all of a sudden, mouth still slightly open, as though struck by the realisation of something he knew already. "I wonder if that's why she loved me," he says, more to himself than anyone. "I always took such care to be sure of myself. Maybe she believed that I could teach her who she was meant to be."

"But she doesn't need to be anyone," scoffs Prussia. "She's perfect right now."

Austria looks up at him. "You're in love with her."

The world stops.

Outside, planes freeze in the sky. Bombs stop in mid-air. Burning buildings and falling rubble and civilians huddling in shelters all cease to exist. All there is are those five words, hanging, rolling, cresting, reverberating through every inch of him. Some deep, forgotten part of him wonders numbly if anything else ever was at all.

Prussia doesn't say anything.

Wordlessly, Austria reaches over and extracts another cigarette with his musician's fingers.

The silence is both overwhelming and nonexistent and he doesn't understand how that can be, so he has to break it if only to stop the buzzing in his ears. "Why aren't you attacking me?" he demands.

"Pardon?"

"Elizabeta's your ex-wife! Don't you... I don't know, don't you feel anything?"

Austria shrugs. "I feel plenty. Maybe too much, especially after..." He sighs. "But our time is over. I've already had far too many second chances. I no longer believe that she can be happy with me."

"Why not?"

"Because I can't keep giving her false hope."

Prussia sits, and listens to the bombs, and wonders if either of them has hope false or otherwise to spare any more.

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><p>RODERICH BABY COME HERE LET ME HUG YOU<p> 


	17. Behind the Curtain

**1945 - Moscow, Russia**

It's cold.

That's first thing that Prussia registers upon waking up. It's so cold he almost expects to find himself lying in snow, but his face is pressed against a hard concrete floor and the chill of it has numbed his cheek. He pushes himself into a sitting position and winces in pain; he's bruised all over and his head is throbbing. He puts a hand to his skull and feels a bump the size of a small egg. There is dried blood in his hair. He's still wearing his military uniform, but it's covered in dirt and dust and parts of it have been hidden by bandages.

_What? Where am I?_

The room is entirely grey. Grey floor, grey walls, a grey door and no windows at all. The only light comes from a bare bulb hanging from the ceiling by a few pieces of wire. There's a metal slab covered in a few threadbare blankets attached to the wall, but that's the only piece of furniture there is. There are no other people, nothing to do and no way to judge his location.

_How did I get here?_

He thinks back. The last thing he remembers is Berlin, at the end of all things. Gunfire. Explosions. A hopeless struggle for the last part of the Reich that remained. He was alone; Germany was stuck underground with the _arschloch _that got them into this mess and he had been separated from Austria early on. He remembers tanks, collapsing buildings, artillery drowning the world in noise and fire. The Soviet flag flying over the Reichstag. Then one of the endless bombs hit a building nearby, something hard smashed into his head and everything ceased to be.

_Scheisse._

Along with the cuts and bruises, there's another strange feeling beginning to spread through him. He hadn't noticed it at first, what with his new surroundings and the far more painful things to worry about, but now he concentrates he's sure it's there. A sort of tingling, like a very mild form of pins and needles, and he can feel it in every square inch of his body. It's far from painful - in fact, he realises, it was the absence of this feeling that was worse. It's somehow familiar, but he can't think where he's felt it before. It feels... whole.

He gives up on the feeling as the aftereffects of his injuries, climbs to his feet and walks across to the door. He tries the handle; it's locked. The door itself is made of metal with strong hinges and, judging by the noise it makes when he taps on it, it's about a foot thick. A tiny sliding door at eye level is also locked. He writes the door off and paces the walls, running his hands over the smooth grey concrete. He doesn't know what he's looking for, but whatever it is, he doesn't find it. He's utterly, completely trapped.

_What the hell? What's going on?_

In a fit of desperation, he kicks the door as hard as he can and comes away with nothing but a throbbing toe. Hopping on one foot and waiting for the pain to go away, he makes it to the metal slab of a bed and sits down, wrapping one of the blankets around his shoulders for warmth. Wherever he is, it's _really cold_.

_I need a cigarette._

He checks the pockets of his military jacket and finds one. But his relief is short-lived; his lighter appears to have fallen out somewhere along the way. He swears, and the word echoes around the empty room. He gives up on finding a way to entertain himself and simply sits, staring at the grey wall opposite him and waiting.

* * *

><p>He has no way of judging the time, but it must've been at least an hour before they come for him.<p>

The metal window slides back with a scraping noise and he jerks his head towards the door just in time to see a pair of dark eyes before it's slammed back into place. Then there's the sound of a key turning in the lock and the door swings open.

There are two of them in the doorway. Two men wearing long greatcoats and fur hats. Soldiers of the Red Army. Without saying a word, they cross the room and grab him by the arms before he can move to stop them. One on each side, they frogmarch him out of the door.

He doesn't resist; he doesn't see the point. They drag him through a maze of corridors, each as dully grey as the last and dotted with metal doors just like the one that held him. He isn't sure whether this is supposed to be a prison or just some awful excuse for a house. After a few minutes, he gives up on looking. Everything is the same.

They stop in front of a door with Cyrillic script on it, throw him inside and leave.

Prussia drags himself to his knees and looks around, trying to ignore the throbbing bruise on his head. He's in some sort of office. There are still no windows, but this room has some propaganda posters on the wall depicting men in the same uniform as the ones who just left, more script he can't read and the hammer and sickle design he's seen on so many flags decorating the battlefield.

He knows where he is, and that sends icy tendrils far colder than this place could ever hope to be clawing at his insides.

There is a desk in the middle of the room with papers and folders piled at the sides. And sitting at the desk is, finally, someone he knows, but not someone he was hoping to see.

Russia.

"_Privet, Prussiya_," he smiles, a childlike glee lighting up his face like a six-year-old at Christmastime.

"Where the hell am I?" spits Prussia. The time for pleasantries is long past, not that he would've adhered to them anyway in the presence of the Ruskie.

"You are just outside Moscow," says Russia. "You lost the war. But you knew that, da?"

"What am I doing outside Moscow? What do you want? Where's West and Hungary and Austria? What's going on?"

Russia giggles. He's enjoying himself, and it makes Prussia want to hold him down into that chair of his and punch him until he wipes that stupid smile off his face. "One question at a time. First of all, you are here because we are friends now, and friends visit each other's houses, da?"

Prussia stares at him. "Stop talking crap, _arschloch_."

"Now, now," pouts Russia. "You can't go talking to me like that. It's not at all polite."

He grits his teeth. "Tell me what I'm doing here, _Russland_, or I swear to God-"

"I just did. You're here because you're my friend. You're part of a big group of friends called the Warsaw Pact. Isn't that nice?"

"I... don't understand. What's the Warsaw Pact?"

Russia laces his fingers together and leans his chin on them, bending over his desk to get a better look at Prussia. "When Berlin fell," he says, "Britain, America and France found your brother half-dead in a bunker underneath the Reich Chancellory. I regret that I was not there to assist them. However, all was not lost - I found you instead. You were buried underneath some debris from an explosion, badly wounded and unconscious but still alive. I took you back to my medics and they did their best for you," he gestures at the bandages tied over the top of his uniform, "but I felt compelled to bring you back to my home to recover."

"Great," says Prussia, clambering to his feet. "Thanks. I'll go now, then." He backs away towards the door, but Russia's halting gesture comes as no surprise. His stomach sinks; he knew there was more to this than the bigger nation was letting on.

"I have not finished my explanation. As I was saying, my kindness did not stop there. Along with the medicine and bandages, I have given you a new home. I have taken you under my wing to train you in the ways of successful government. I have even taken the liberty of giving you a country again."

Prussia freezes.

"It is marvellous, da?"

He stares at him. _A country? _Is he joking? He can't be. Despite his constant smiles and laughter, Russia does not make jokes.

"You are now the German Democratic Republic. You have land, people, leaders... Everything you have not had for years." Russia regards him, a smile still stretching his face, waiting for a reaction.

"What... what about West?" is all he can choke out.

"He is with Britain, France and America," says Russia. "If I am correct, he is to be the other half of what was once Germany. The western half."

Prussia's mouth opens, then closes once he realises he has nothing to say.

"You will be the eastern half," he continues, "and you will have me looking after you. I will manage your economy, politics, business and media. However, there are certain trade-offs to be made for such generosity on my behalf. I will kindly ask you not to go out of your way to communicate with the nations on the other side what Britain's Prime Minister so heartlessly calls the 'Iron Curtain'. I prefer to think of it more as a protective bubble surrounding the group of you I have saved, stopping selfish capitalist ideologies from leaking through and corrupting your minds. It is for the best, I assure you."

And, as he smiles and waits for a reply, Prussia finally understands. Russia is claiming countries destabilised by the war and redesigning them according to his own ideals. He's creating a pocket of nations answering to the Soviets, completely cut off from the rest of the world. Any independence he's promising is a lie. As fantastic as becoming a country again sounds, this whole situation feels so horribly wrong he wants to scream.

"Who else is here?" he demands. "Who else is part of this... this 'Warsaw Pact' thing?"

Russia counts the nations off on his fingers. "Poland... Romania... Bulgaria... Albania... Czech and Slovakia... Hungary..."

The bottom drops out of Prussia's stomach. "Hungary?"

"Da, she was in here only a few hours ago. I rescued her a few blocks away from where I found you."

"Where is she now?"

"Patience, _Prussiya_."

He's advancing towards the desk now, his hands balling themselves into fists. "Tell me where she is!"

"You'll see her soon enough," says Russia, still as pleasantly calm as ever.

"Have you hurt her? If you've so much as _touched _her-"

He bangs his hands down onto the desk and leans over, stopping inches away from the other nation's face. Russia's expression doesn't even twitch. "Any damage done to Miss _Vengriya_ is your own fault. I have not laid a finger on her."

He isn't lying. Prussia straightens up, his fists still clenched at his sides. "What if I refuse?"

"Refuse what?"

"Refuse to be your German Democratic Republic."

Russia laughs an unnaturally childish, high-pitched laugh full of honest amusement. "Why would you refuse? I'm offering you a country again, and not just any country: a worker's paradise."

"Yeah, I've heard about your 'worker's paradise'. You killed your own royal family for it, after all. I forget, how many of your workers have died so far?"

Russia's smile does not falter. "Certain sacrifices must be made to achieve utopia."

"You know what? I don't think I want to be a utopia. I refuse to be part of your Warsaw Pact. Now let me go and-"

"You misunderstand my offer," says Russia. "You _will _be the German Democratic Republic. You _will _answer to me. You _will _be a paradise, whether you like it or not."

"No!" Suddenly the concrete walls seem twice as thick as before and getting thicker. They're pressing in on him, trapping him inside this tiny office with the nation smiling at him in a way that makes his spine crawl. He's worlds away from home and there's no-one here to help him. All that exists is claustrophobia, growing fear and the need to _get out of here_. "I said no. Let me go! You can't-"

Russia giggles. "Try to stop me."

Prussia swings his fist back and cracks him across the jaw with as much force as he can muster. To his shock, Russia barely flinches as a blow strong enough to send most people sprawling across the room glances off his face. Prussia aims another and it's caught in mid-air by a grip so strong he can almost feel his arm breaking.

Russia laughs another high-pitched, childish laugh. "You know, that's just how Miss Hungary reacted. I suppose you'll have to be educated just like her." He shouts something in Russian and the same two guards throw the door open, cross the room and grab him by the arms. He struggles as hard as he can, trying to kick and writhe and headbutt in a panicked frenzy, but they're holding him too tightly and they won't let go.

"I wouldn't struggle if I were you," Russia calls after him as he's dragged out of the door. "Siberia isn't very nice this time of year. _Do svidaniya, Vostochnaya Germaniya._"

* * *

><p><strong>Do svidaniya, Vostochnaya Germaniya = Goodbye, East Germany.<strong>

**And so begins the Cold War. The German Democratic Republic wasn't officially established until a few years after the end of World War Two, but Russia never intended to give his zone of control back and it seems to make sense that he'd have planned Prussia's future from the moment he fished him out of the rubble. So that's my excuse for the little bit of historical inaccuracy in there. ^_^**

**Once again, please take the time to leave a review! Getting feedback really makes my day.**


	18. In Soviet Russia

**1949 - Moscow, Russia**

So it's official.

It's strange how he can go from being the Soviet Occupation Zone to the fully-fledged, fancily-titled German Democratic Republic with virtually no change in feeling at all. Perhaps it's because there was no change, not really. He has a government now, but for all its claims of freedom and democracy, it's just a puppet regime, and Russia is pulling the strings. 'East Germany', he's called now, or just 'East', but it always takes him a few seconds to remember that it refers to him. He still has to catch himself before giving 'Prussia' as an answer whenever anyone asks his name.

East Germany, he is constantly reminded, is not Prussia. That _schweinhund _Karl Marx never liked him, and Russia worships the guy like a _verdammt _god. They destroyed his old aristocracy's manors, tore down his palace and even took the statue of Old Fritz from his half of Berlin. East Germany has no connection whatsoever to Prussia - the fact that they happen to occupy the same region, have the same ancestors and speak the same language is just an unfortunate coincidence. So why does he feel so utterly, undeniably _Prussian_?

Perhaps that's why he's forced back to Russia's house for months on end. To brainwash out the stubborn remnants of who he used to be. Who he _is_. But then, the rest of the Eastern Bloc is here as well, and he can't help but wonder if it's for the same reason.

Russia's house is a huge mansion built during the days of the Tsardom and the aristocracy. Back when it was acceptable to own more than everyone else. It's a house for a different time, and it shows it in its lavishly designed ballrooms and exquisitely carved marble arches. It was designed to be maintained by legions of servants, but Russia no longer approves of keeping servants and so Prussia and the rest of the Eastern Bloc are forced to pick up the slack.

It's five o'clock in the morning and he's been assigned to scrub the ever-accumulating dust out of one of the grand dining rooms. He hasn't eaten yet and is almost glad of that - the food rations, even when supplemented with whatever the Baltics can sneak out of the pantry, are unsatisfying at best and downright sickening at worst. He isn't sure whether he prefers these spells in Russia's house to the time he spends in his own residence in East Berlin. Both are cold and hungry with the unnerving and ever-present feeling that someone is watching you. Russia's house is less lonely, but it's hardly the environment for building friendships. Everyone is constantly looking over their shoulder and no-one has time to stop and talk in case they're punished for slacking off. The fact that Hungary still refuses to even make eye contact with him and leaves any room she's in the moment he enters it makes him sadder than he'd realised it would. Perhaps he'd allowed himself to hope that, in these circumstances above all others, she'd be able to forget what he'd done to her.

He's finished scrubbing the table and is just about to get started on the windows when the door behind him creaks open.

He jumps and spins around, his heart skipping at least three beats. _Calm down. You're not doing anything wrong. You haven't broken any rules, have you?_

But it's not Russia coming into the room with a bucket of soapy water over his arm. It's Poland, and he waves lazily in greeting. "Yo."

Prussia turns back to the window. "Hey," he says flatly. "What are you doing here?"

"I got assigned to help you." He plants his fists on his hips and stares around the room. "Jeez, this place is a dump."

"You can start on the other window, then," says Prussia. He's not in the mood for conversation.

There's the sound of sloshing water as Poland heaves his bucket over to the next window and wrings out his sponge. "So," he says, after a few seconds of silent scrubbing, "what's up?"

Prussia grits his teeth. "Same as you, remember? Equal society."

"Right, forgot about that." There's another pause, then Poland hazards, "Dude, I've been meaning to ask you. What the _hell _did you do to Hungary? If looks could kill, you'd be, like, _so _dead right now. I always thought you two were tight."

Something icy shoots through him, and it isn't a draft from the window. "It's none of your damn business."

Poland shrugs as though this is no big deal. "Whatever. I figured you'd say that. Just had to ask, you know? Because you know what?"

Prussia sighs deeply. "What?"

"She's really sad. Like, _majorly _sad. She won't tell me why, so I've been trying to work it out. I think most of it's from this whole bullshit Warsaw Pact thing. Seriously, why did they have to call it the _Warsaw _Pact? It makes it sound like _I _had something to do with it." He gives the window an extra-hard swipe with the sponge, then shrugs it off and continues. "But anyway, some of it's probably from losing the war. I mean, not that that wasn't a good thing for the world and all - no offence - but losing a war sucks hard, even if you know it's better than winning. So I was going to just accept that as the reason, but the fact is that she goes from sort of depressed to, like, practically bawling when you're around. You probably don't see it because she gets the hell out of there so fast whenever you show up, but it's true."

Prussia stares at him.

"So," says Poland, "whatever you did to her, I'd totally just suck it up and apologise if I were you. Hey, I can't guarantee she'll even forgive you, but it's a start, right? Because I have no idea what you did, but _holy crap _it must've been low."

Hungary is sad because of him. Because of what he did, she finds it too painful to even stay in the same _room _as him. No matter what Poland says, he knows she'll never forgive him. He's ruined her and he's ruined Europe and he's ruined the world. Being stuck here - not just him and Hungary, but Poland and Romania and Albania and everyone else - is all his fault, and there's absolutely nothing he can do to fix it. Either Russia works or starves them to death, they end up a radioactive battleground or, by some miracle, they escape. But if he escapes then West will just reunify them and he'll cease to exist for a second time.

There is absolutely no way to get out of this situation alive.

Suddenly the windows seem pointless. Who cares if they stay dusty? What can Russia do to him that won't just happen anyway, one way or another? He hurls his sponge into his bucket and stares at the ceiling, trying to ignore the sudden heat welling up in his eyes.

"Hey," says Poland, staring at him in alarm. "Look, I'm sorry. I totally didn't mean that. Don't cry!"

"I'm not fucking crying," he snarls, pressing the heels of his palms into his eye sockets so hard he sees bright lights behind his eyelids.

"Oh, you so are. Don't lie to the master - how many times do you think _I've _cried?"

That surprises him enough to make him forget about the tears he's trying so hard to hold back. He's never seen Poland cry before. Poland is perpetually happy, shy or obnoxious, but never sad.

"Partitions, invasions, dissolutions..." He counts them off on his fingers casually, as though going through his shopping list. "Some of them were your fault, you know. Especially that last one. Did you really have to ruin Warsaw _that _much? I'm _still _rebuilding. And that's not even mentioning all those camps you just couldn't build on your own territor-"

"Don't even _mention _them," he hisses. "They were _not _my idea."

Poland shrugs. "Whatever. The fact is, I have more than you do and they certainly weren't _my _idea. You like, totally just ruined the thirties _and _the forties for me, and the fifties don't look like they're gonna turn out much better, do they?"

Prussia grits his teeth, trying to will the tears to drain away. "What's your point, Polski?"

"I'm still breathing, aren't I? So are you. At least you have a country again - it's a bit of a crap one, yeah, but it has to be better than just being Germany's lackey, right?"

"They hate me there," he says, hating how choked he sounds. "They don't want anything to do with me. It's not my country." His voice cracks, and he wants to punch himself for it.

"Well, that sucks." Poland dips his sponge back in the bucket and wrings it out. "But you know what? You're still alive. Russia can't kill you unless you let him break you first. Trust me, he's been trying to knock me off for _centuries_. Just keep your chin up, maybe start a resistance if it makes you feel better, and get organising some revolutions."

Prussia stares at him in disbelief. How can he say that so casually? As though it's no big deal? As though he's had worse? They are cut off from the rest of the world, denied freedoms so basic he never even noticed he had them until they were gone and forced to conform to a communist regime that slowly wears away at both his health and his spirit. Not only do the fifties look uninviting, he's unsure if he'll live to see the sixties or if he even wants to. And Poland's just sitting there, inspecting his nails as though the lack of manicure availability is the worst of his problems?

Prussia's fists ball involuntarily at his sides. Suddenly all he wants to do is hold the obnoxious blond nation down and punch him until he acknowledges some fraction of the pain he _must _be feeling and somehow - _impossibly _- ignoring.

"Just shut up," he hisses, wiping his eyes roughly on his sleeves. "Shut up. Stop talking about your resistances and revolutions and chin-up-big-smile shit. It won't work. Russia's stronger than us and he'll never let us go."

"He won't be strong forever-"

"Yeah, maybe in a few hundred years once he's worked us all to death. If he's brought down any earlier than that, we'll all just be giant holes full of toxic fallout. Face it, Polski. We're screwed."

Poland shrugs. "Have it your way, _Wschodnie_."

"Don't call me that," he hisses. Even if he loses everything else, he refuses to lose who he was. He has a long, proud history greater than Russia can ever imagine, and certainly greater than this stupid puppet state he's being forced to represent.

"Fine, _Prusy_. But think about what I said, okay? Russia can't kill you unless you help him."

"Yeah, whatever." Suddenly the thought of spending any longer in the same room as this ridiculously optimistic _dummkopf _makes his blood boil. He needs to get out, for both his own safety and Poland's. "I'm going to go start on the next room."

He picks up his bucket and slams the door behind him, then makes it precisely three steps before collapsing back against the wall and sliding to the floor, burying his face in his knees. It's hopeless. Poland can keep his bloody chin up and plan stupid little revolutions as much as he likes, but it's hopeless. They're all doomed, especially weak little East Germany.

Suddenly all he wants is to see West again. He's the idiot who got them into this mess, but he's his brother and in that instant he misses him so much it hurts. He wants Hungary to look at him again without hatred in her eyes. He wants to be in the same room as her for more than the time it takes her to reach the nearest door. He even wants to see Austria, and curses the sissy piano-freak for doing the impossible and making him _miss _him.

He's not crying. He _can't _be crying. He's tougher than this. He's fought wars and outlived dynasties and he's _not crying_. He's too awesome for that. He's Prussia, for God's sake!

Except that he's not.

He's not Prussia any more. He's East Germany, a slave of Soviet Russia. He's powerless. He's been stripped of his dignity and his pride by circumstances outside his control. He's a victim, but he deserves everything he's getting. Agreeing to invade Budapest was his fault. Hungary hating him and never wanting to speak to him again is his fault. What happened in Bavaria might as well have been his fault for all he did to stop it.

It's all his fault and Goddamn it he's crying because he's alive again and he'd _rather be dead._

All the tears he'd been holding back suddenly break the steel-hard barriers in their way and surge out like floodwaters, soaking into the knees of his trousers. His throat has closed up and his shoulders are shaking but it's too late, he's too far gone, all he can do is wrap his arms around his legs and sob properly, unrestrainedly, for the first time in centuries. But it doesn't make him feel better. It drowns any speck of hope he might've had lying dormant, plunging him into a bottomless ocean of utter despair.

An eternity later, once his eyes are dry and the soapy water in his bucket is growing cold, East Germany drags himself to his feet and sets off for the next set of dusty windows.

* * *

><p><strong>Poland is my resident cheering-up pixie. I swear, if you have a sad character, just throw them in a room with Poland. Whatever's wrong with them, he's had worse and he's like, totally fine. You know the situation's bad when not even Poland-therapy works. Poor Prussia... T^T<strong>

**This story's getting so much longer than I planned! World War One was over like BAM and World War Two took ages, and now God knows how long the Cold War's going to go for. We're just starting to turn onto the home stretch now, though, I can tell you that much. Just don't ask me how many chapters are left because I don't have a clue.**

**Once again, please leave a review! I know asking for one probably won't change your mind one way or the other, but I really would like to know your thoughts on this so far.**


	19. To Feel Alive

**1952 - Berlin, East Germany**

When Prussia opens his front door and sees Hungary standing on the threshold, his first instinct is to brace himself.

This time, however, she doesn't launch herself at him. She just stares and says, "Gil, you look terrible."

He feels terrible. It's getting on in the afternoon and he's still in that uncomfortable stage between hung over and drunk. If he's honest, he hasn't really felt anything but terrible for a while now. Actually doing anything is impossible with Russia watching your every move. He has no money for anything other than the necessities, and he'd only have enough for food if Russia wasn't supplying this house for him. And the house, free as it is, does nothing to lift his spirits. It's cold, dark and boring, all right-angles and dull greys. It feels more like a prison cell than a home, which, thinking about it, is appropriate, because that's what it is.

"Where did you get that black eye from? Have you been fighting?"

"No," he says, even though he has. He was in a street brawl just last night, in fact. He'd won, of course, but his opponents hadn't gone down easily. He still has sore ribs from the night before that, and a bloody scratch up his right arm from the night before that. "Why are you here?"

She makes a move to step inside but he stays put, blocking the doorway. "I wanted to see you."

He snorts. "No, really."

"Yes, really. I haven't seen you in ages. I miss you."

He crosses his arms and glowers at her. "I thought I was a worthless failure of a nation and you never wanted to speak to me again."

"I... I didn't mean that," she says apologetically. "I was just... well, you were _invading Budapest_, surely you can understand..."

He laughs, cold and just a little bit manic, because Budapest was his fault and they both know it. "Understand what? You not wanting to associate with someone like me?"

"Don't say that, Gil. Of course I want to associate with you."

"So," he breathes, "you've actually sunk that far, have you?"

She gives him a concerned look. "What do you mean?"

"I mean I'm not worth talking to. You said it yourself. The fact that you're here now, acting like there's actually a point to my existence... it must be worse over at your place than I thought."

This clearly isn't the response she was expecting. She isn't sure whether to be apologetic or offended, so she tries approaching from a different angle. "Just sit down, Gil. You look awful. When was the last time you ate properly? How about I make us something to eat and we can talk about-"

"About what, Liza?" he asks, leaning against the doorframe and refusing to let her pass. "How we're absolutely pointless these days? How we're slowly starving to death? How we can't do anything without Russia watching us? About how none of it matters anyway because a year from now we'll probably just be some godforsaken nuclear wasteland anyway?"

She's desperate now; he can see it in her eyes. "Try to look on the bright side. We're still alive, aren't we?"

"_You _are," he mutters.

"So are you! What, did you keel over and die when I wasn't looking or something?"

"You've got a country!" He's shouting now. He's shouting right at her and he's ruining everything and _God _it feels good. "You're Hungary! I don't even _exist _any more!"

"Stop talking crap!" she shouts back. "You're Prussia, aren't you?"

"Prussia's gone! Dissolved!"

"Well, you're East Germany, then!"

"And that means I'm doomed! The way I see it, there's only two outcomes for this pathetic country. Either that bloody wall comes down and West takes over for good or someone gets the balls to kick this war up a notch and I end up as radioactive collateral damage! Either way, I'm living on borrowed time!"

"You don't know that," she whispers. "You don't know that, Prussia, listen to me-"

"Listen to you what? Tell me to perk up and think about how the whole Eastern Bloc could puke rainbows if we all just believed in the power of friendship? Feel sorry for me for not being a nation any more? Go on at me about how you miss that piano-freak across the border?"

"I wasn't going to talk about _Austria_!" she yells, emphasising his name and the fact that it isn't 'piano-freak'. "And if you'd just shut your mouth for five minutes for once in your life then you'd know that what I was _trying _to tell you is that we should put our differences behind us and start fresh! We're all in this together and if we're going to get through this alive then we might as well have each other to lean on! But you know what," she spits, looking at him with what can only be described as utter disgust, "I don't know why I bothered coming to you. You're right - you're not worth it. Have a nice life, Gilbert."

* * *

><p>He stares at the door for a long time after she slams it.<p>

His mind decides that it doesn't want to have to cope with something like this and hands in its respectful resignation.

And so, in an attempt to find something to do the thinking for him, he finds himself stumbling into the kitchen and flinging open the fridge. He finds the biggest bottle he owns of God-knows-what - he's past caring if it's beer or vodka or cyanide - and unscrews the lid with numb, shaking fingers.

* * *

><p>An hour later, he's drunk. He's been drunk plenty of times before, of course, but this time he's <em>drunk<em>. Smashed, wasted, pissed, however you want to say it, it applies to him and he knows it. He's at a loss to explain how he got there, but somehow he's out on the streets in the cold and the dark. The small number of people still outside at this time of night give him wary glances and cross the street, but he doesn't care. Screw them. Screw everything. Screw Hungary, screw East Germany, screw the whole damned Eastern Bloc for all he cares.

"Hey Blondie."

The voice is low and menacing and coming from right behind him. Prussia swings around, almost losing his balance, outraged at the nerve of this guy. Blondie? He's not blond. West's blond. Clearly this guy can't tell the difference between white and yellow. "Never try to eat snow," he advises him. _For his own good._

The man - and, Prussia realises, his friends - look confused for a moment before ploughing on regardless. "Whatever," he says. "Look, if you know what's good for you you'll hand over that wallet in your pocket before someone gets hurt."

"That's not my wallet," he grins at them. "I'm just really happy to see you guys."

The leader takes a step forwards, grinding his teeth. "You mouthing off to us, mate?"

There are more of them than there are of him. Some of them are taller - and Prussia's hardly lacking in the height department - and a lot of them are bigger. Judging by the way a few of them are reaching into their jackets, they probably have knives as well. The odds are overwhelmingly against him, but God damn it he's _drunk_ and he could use a good fight more than anything right now.

"So what if I am?" he says, refusing to drop his eyes.

"Last chance, Blondie."

His brother's words, spoken almost half a century ago in a cold, muddy trench in France, come swimming back to him. _"There really is nothing like a good war to take your mind off things." _Until either Russia or America get around to finally heating things up, this is the best he's going to get.

He takes a swing at the leader. Alcohol messes up his balance and obscures his aim, but he still manages to hit his nose so hard he hears it crack. He staggers back, blood streaming down his face, but more of them are swarming forwards to take his place. There are about five of them, give or take a few - the double vision makes it hard to count - and good Lord they're angry. He ducks under a wild haymaker and slams his elbow into someone's ribs, takes a fist to the shoulder then spins and aims a punch in the general direction of someone else.

It's sloppy fighting and he knows it, but he doesn't care. It feels good to let his anger out, to transfer it to others by means of bruises and broken bones. It even feels good to take hits. The pain clouds his mind, leaving no room for anything else but the fight. Adrenaline is coursing through his veins, making him feel whole and strong and _real_. He is Prussia. He was born for war and lives to fight. As he throws punch after punch, fists glancing off shoulders and faces and stomachs, he feels like himself again. As a fist lands in his gut, knocking the wind out of him, he doesn't feel like a subordinate state. As he feels the cartilage in his nose snap, he doesn't feel like pointless, ineffectual East Germany. As two of his ribs crack, he feels like Prussia again. And, as he drops to his knees, barely able to gasp for breath before a knee smashes into his face, he feels alive.

He's good, but he's no match for their entire gang. He knows that and accepts it with no hard feelings as he pitches to one side, landing spread-eagled on the cold, damp pavement. Someone kicks him in the side and he curls into a ball, gritting his teeth, refusing to shout in pain. Another kick, and another, and then someone stamps on his face. He loses count of how many more there are. He has no idea how long they beat him for. He just lies there on the tarmac, taking each new bruise and cracked rib like the nation he used to be.

And then they stop. They walk away, muttering something about leaving him for dead. And, after all that, they forget to steal his wallet.

The pain is nothing to be sniffed at. He sniffs anyway and laughs, somewhat deliriously, then his ribs make him wish he hadn't. His cuts and bruises are so numerous they all seem to melt together into one huge, all-encompassing injury so that every inch of his body hurts like hell. He lies there in the gutter and coughs blood onto the pavement, not even trying to get up. He knows he won't be able to.

If he was a normal human, he'd be dead by the morning. He knows that. But he's a nation - a weak, pathetic nation, he thinks bitterly, but a nation all the same - so he doesn't get that luxury.

Above him the streetlights are twinkling like the stars they're blocking out. He stares past them to the sky, pitch black, empty except for the swirling clouds that are just beginning to spit rain onto the streets of East Berlin. And, through two black eyes, one beginning to swell almost shut, he stares.

_What did I do to deserve this, God? _he thinks, and he doesn't mean the bruises. _Wait. Don't answer that. _He winces and takes a moment to chase the memories away. _We used to be tight, didn't we? Did I really piss you off that much? I mean, I know I've killed, but you never seemed to have a problem with that before. And okay, I totally wouldn't want to be treated like I've treated people, and maybe I've been doing some major passing by on the other side. But I've never committed adultery - she wasn't even married then, remember? - and that whole thing about coveting your neighbour's wife is just a bullshit technicality and you know it._

_Okay, so maybe I haven't been that great. Actually, that's the understatement of the century. I pretty much just helped ruin the world you made, didn't I? Sorry about that. No really, I'm sorry about that. I didn't mean to. I shouldn't have got so caught up in my own power. I shouldn't have let it go to my head. I was just so sick of being weak, and it felt so good to have people respect me again... But everything I thought, everything I did, was wrong. I should've realised that. I should've tried to do something. To stop West from getting out of control. I don't know how much use I would've been, but I should've tried. I should've tried. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry..._

Perhaps he's crying, or perhaps it's just the rain.

* * *

><p><strong>Writing this made me feel like a terrible person.<strong>

**At least the only way to go from here is up...**


	20. Revolution

**1956 - Budapest, Hungary**

He finds her lying unconscious in the gutter, bruised and battered and covered in blood.

He never was the best at field medicine. All he can think to do is get her to safety.

He puts his hand in her pocket and pulls out her wallet, knowing how rude this is and not caring in the slightest. He finds an identity card and squints at it - under her human name, Elizabeta Hedervary, and her assumed birthdate, June 8th 1932, is an address that's hopefully the only truthful thing on this piece of plastic. He's sure he's heard somewhere that moving injured people is a bad idea, but it's that or leave her here on the pavement so he carefully puts one arm under her knees and the other behind her back, lifting her bridal-style out of the pool of blood in which she's been lying.

Navigating his way back to her house is a bit of a challenge. Budapest has changed since he was last here and his Hungarian is sketchy at best. There are still bulletholes in walls and signposts, shattered windows and broken walls, and the people who dare to venture out this soon after the revolution keep their heads down and barely even look at him. The more he sees of this city, the less he wants to be here.

He saw her revolution in the newspaper only a day before. In the _newspaper_. It's a good thing it was on the front page or he still wouldn't know about it. _Something this big... Why didn't she tell me? _Deep down, he knows why. She had tried to tell him all the way back in 1952, or at least lay the foundations for such an alliance, but he had mocked her for being optimistic and driven her away. _Damn it, Prussia! Why do you have to be such a verdammt idiot?_

It takes him fifteen minutes to find her building. Not a house, a flat. Nevertheless, he carries her inside and up the stairs. The key in her coat pocket unlocks the door with her number on it.

Hungary's flat looks even more like a prison cell than his house. It's smaller, that's for sure, and the wallpaper is not only dull but dirty and beginning to peel away. Moisture is leaking through the ceiling - she's placed a bucket on the floor to catch the drips. The cheap iron coathanger by the door stands empty and unused, as the lack of heating makes coats a necessity both inside and out.

The flat consists of just four rooms, so it doesn't take him long to find her bedroom. He places her down on the sheets as gently as he can and examines her injuries. They're bad. If she was a regular human she'd be dead by now, but she's his Hungary and she's been a fighter since the day he first met her.

_Right. If I was a first aid kit, where would I be?_

He finds it on the first go, tucked away under the bathroom sink, the exact same place as he keeps his own back in his house in East Berlin. It's not particularly extensive, but there's bandages, painkillers and antiseptic cream and that, he thinks, will have to do.

He brings it back through to her room, kneels by her bedside and gets to work. He's never had much interest or aptitude for medicine - he always preferred to be the one causing the injuries, not healing them - but he's seen battlefield medics at work and he tries to imitate the memories as best he can. Cream, bandage, wrap, tie. Cream, bandage, wrap, tie. He hopes he isn't getting it all wrong and making her worse.

It's as he's bandaging a deep gash down her calf that she stirs.

He freezes, still gripping the linen strip, and has to remind himself that he isn't breaking any rules here.

Her eyes crack open. "...Gil?"

"Don't move," he says, trying not to sound as unsure of himself as he feels.

"What... what's going on? Is the rebellion still-"

"The rebellion's over," he tells her. "Russia hurt you pretty badly. You'll be alright, but you have to stay still, okay?"

There's a pause. For a moment, he's terrified she's going to tell him to get out and leave her alone, that she thought she said she never wanted to speak to him again. But then she nods once, just barely, and closes her eyes again.

He works slowly but steadily, binding shut each of her injuries as he comes across them - and _God _is there a lot of them. She doesn't seem to have any actual bullet wounds, but exploding glass and what looks like knives can do just as much damage. When he's finished, he fetches a glass of water from the kitchen and gives it to her to drink with the painkillers. She props herself up on her elbow, wincing as she stretches her bandages, and gulps it down appreciatively.

"Better?" he asks her, and she nods again.

Neither of them speak until he's gathered the remaining rolls of bandages back into the box. Just as he's leaving to put it back in the bathroom, Hungary says, "Gil?"

He turns, halfway out of the door. "Yeah?"

"...Thank you. For coming. For everything. I didn't... I mean, I..."

"It's no big deal," he says, because it isn't. When your friend gets hurt, you help. It has nothing to do with repaying favours or maintaining honour, it just is. She would've done the same for him.

"No, it is," she says, and bites her lip. "I... I'm sorry I shouted at you. I didn't mean it. I was just..."

"Me too. Honestly, don't mention it."

She looks for a moment as though she's about to, but then she simply smiles and lies back into her pillow.

* * *

><p>That evening, Prussia finds some tinned food in the cupboards and makes them both the sort of paltry excuse for a meal they've grown used to these past years. Hungary isn't up for eating much, but she still sits propped against her bedhead and valiantly forces down as many of the bland, soggy vegetables as she can manage. Prussia leans against the bed and ignores the taste, focusing instead on the steady <em>drip, drip, drip <em>of the leaking water from the ceiling as it falls into the bucket.

"I'm sorry," she says, once her bowl is as empty as she can manage.

He twists around to frown up at her. "What for?"

"For having a revolution. For not telling you about it. For failing. For-"

"Jesus, Liza, don't apologise for that," he says, cutting her off.

"No, you were right. You told me there was no point fighting back. I fought back, and just look what happened." Her voice is choked and she's holding back tears, and that fills him with a sudden blaze of determination.

"I wasn't in my right mind when I told you that," he says firmly. "I lost hope. But listen to me - _you can't lose hope_. You just can't."

"But I-"

"Remember when Russia used to make us all come to his house every year for 'lessons'?" he asks, making finger quotes around the last word because they both know that 'manual labour' and 'brainwashing' would work just as well. "Poland told me something back then. I didn't listen to it at the time - I thought he was a complete _dummkopf, _actually - but it kind of makes sense when you think about it. He said that Russia can't kill you unless you help him. If you break down and let him get to you, then he'll break you. But if we refuse to give up, if we stay strong, we can break him."

Hungary is silent for a moment, processing this information. "You know," she says, "just when you think Poland's a complete ditz, he comes out with something like that. I honestly wonder what goes on inside his head."

"God knows," says Prussia. "But he's right. And besides, I don't think Russia wants to kill us."

She raises an eyebrow and glances dubiously down at her blood-soaked clothes all wrapped up in bandages. "Oh yeah? What makes you think that?"

"He'd have done it by now, wouldn't he? It's not like we could stop him if he put his mind to it."

"So why's he keeping us alive, then? The rate he's going he might as well save time and knock us off now."

Prussia chews his lip and stares out of the door at the bucket. "Well, he grew up alone, didn't he? He had so much land and almost all of it was cold and empty. The only family he really had was his sisters, and Ukraine's a bit weird and Belarus is batshit. When you think about it, you can't really blame him for wanting to make friends."

She snorts disbelievingly. "Make _friends_? Seriously?"

"I'm not saying he's any good at it. I just reckon it's what he's trying to do, in that messed-up way of his. I think that in his own mind, we're all just a big happy family."

"Actually..." she says slowly, "when Russia first told me about this whole Warsaw Pact thing, I think he mentioned something about us being friends now."

"Me too. He said I was in Moscow because we were friends, and friends visit each other's houses. I thought he was joking at the time."

The two of them fall silent for a moment, wondering what the world is really like inside the head of the nation that's been terrorising them for so many years.

"When you think about it like that," says Hungary, "you almost have to feel sorry for him."

He snorts. "That's a bit of an overreaction, don't you think?"

"Maybe," she says, and laughs. It's only short and ends in a pained wince, but it's definitely a laugh.

Just like old times.

* * *

><p><strong>D'aww, look at my little Pru-chan, all grown up and understanding people... I'm so proud. *glows*<strong>

**You're probably getting sick of me saying this, but please leave a review if you've read this far and liked it! Or even if you haven't liked it and want to tell me what I can do to make it better. Or if you're sort of lukewarm on the whole thing and just feel like exercising your typing muscles. Seriously, just leave a review. I'd love to hear some feedback on this. ^_^**


	21. A Midnight Fairytale

**1956 - Budapest, Hungary**

Hungary does not smoke.

There is not a single cigarette in Hungary's flat.

This is a Big Problem.

The nearest shop is only twenty minutes away, but there's no way he's leaving her for that long. What if she tries to leave again and he isn't there to stop her? What if she reopens her wounds and starts bleeding out with no-one to bandage her up again? She needs someone by her bedside at all times, even if she insists she doesn't. And, as even Poland can't spare more than a few quick, frantic visits, that someone has got to be him.

He rations the last of the cigarettes in his pocket, but even they don't last for long. So he resigns himself to sitting on his hands, pacing her flat and wishing there was someone to shout at. It's selfish and he knows it, but he finds himself wishing that Hungary didn't look so weak and fragile. He almost wants her to leap out of bed and start yelling at him purely so he can have something to take his frustration out on. But even when she's awake, she's so uncharacteristically soft-spoken and quiet that it's all he can do not to just hold her until she's alright again.

One night two weeks after he first found her and brought her home, he's awoken by a foot landing in his lap.

"Oi," he grunts, opening his eyes. The foot, of course, belongs to Hungary, who quickly lifts it and smiles sheepishly at him, knowing she's been caught doing something she shouldn't.

"I was just a bit thirsty, and I didn't want to wake you..."

"Get back into bed," he yawns. "I'll get it for you."

"You really don't have to-"

"Well too bad, 'cause I'm going to anyway."

He hauls himself to his feet and she sits back down on her bed. "Thank you."

"Whatever." He stumbles out of her bedroom, turns on the light and opens the kitchen door. Glass. Tap. Water. _Mein Gott, that's a headache. _His fingers twitch towards his pocket almost of their own accord, then stop as he remembers there's nothing to find there. He sighs deeply, turns the tap off and takes the water back to Hungary's bedroom.

"Thank you," she says again, draining half the glass the moment he gives it to her. She puts it down on her bedside table and looks at him in the half-light. "You look worse than usual, Gil."

"Really? Thanks," he says, sliding back down into a sitting position. He's sorely tempted to bang his head on her bedframe until it stops throbbing, but he's not sure quite how much help that would be.

"You can leave if you want, you know. I think I'm starting to heal up properly now. My cuts haven't reopened in what, two days now?"

Perhaps it's the pity in her voice he can't stand, or perhaps it's that he knows for a fact that it's only been thirty-two hours, not forty-eight, since she's needed him, but something makes him say, "Not likely, Liza. Go back to sleep."

There's a rustle of fabric as she lies back down, then a few moments of silence. Prussia's eyes are just beginning to drift closed again when she says, "Are you sure? Isn't there anything you need to do back in East Germany?"

He lets out a short breath reminiscent of a snort of laughter. "I don't do anything there except sit around and keep myself out of trouble."

"Like you've ever kept yourself out of trouble," she says, and he can almost hear her smiling.

"Point taken. But there's really nothing they need me for - they don't trust me at all, and anything important goes to Russia anyway. Besides, it's not like there's anything I can do to turn that place into less of a shithole. I doubt they've even noticed I'm gone. But what about you? Aren't they missing you in parliament?"

"I don't think so," she says. "It's just like you said - most of what happens here's decided by Russia. The parliament's really just for things he doesn't feel the need to concern himself with. They're probably just rebuilding at the moment." She sighs. "The best thing I can do for them is just get better."

"You will," he assures her. "Speaking of which, do your bandages need changing? I know you haven't been bleeding as much now, but it's been a whole-"

"They're fine, really," she says. "We can change them in the morning if you're worried."

He hesitates for a moment, then accepts this as reasonable. Sleep is probably better for her now than fresh bandages. It's better for him as well - he'd never admit it, but he's having trouble keeping his eyelids from drooping shut. He has no idea what time it is but, judging by the pitch darkness outside, it has to be the middle of the night.

Just as he's about to lose consciousness, Hungary whispers, "Gil?"

"Yeah?"

"I can't sleep."

He sighs and rubs his temples, attempting to wish his headache away. "You got any sleeping pills in that bathroom of yours?"

"I don't think so."

"Well, what do you want me to do? Tell you a story?"

He meant it as a joke, but she surprises him by saying, "A story would be nice."

_What? I don't know any stories! _"Okay, fine," he says. "Let me think for a moment... alright, got it. Once upon a time, not so far away from here, there were two little princes. Well, actually- no, we'll keep it like that for now. Two little princes. Anyway, they were best friends and they went hunting together every day. One of them was a lot better at hunting, but the other one was way smarter."

"He wasn't smarter," says Hungary indignantly. "He just liked to stick his nose into other people's business."

"Do you want me to tell you a story or not? He was totally smarter. And way more awesome. But yeah, these two little princes were really happy. I mean, they got into fights and got hurt all the time, but they had fun and they turned out okay. But then stuff started getting complicated."

"Oh yeah? Complicated how?"

"Well, one of the princes started having weird... _feelings_. For the other prince. This totally confused him because hey, boys liked _girls_, right? And he had this great big book that told him yeah, boys like girls and if they like other boys then they should be stoned to death. So that kind of freaked him out." Is Hungary laughing under her covers? He can't quite tell. "But it was all okay, because it turned out that the reason he'd been having these feelings was because the other prince was actually a princess. I won't tell you how he found it out because it's too awkward, but he did, and then he had to do a whole lot of apologising to the guy who wrote that book."

"Did he forgive him?" asks Hungary.

"I reckon so," he says, shrugging. "He's not particularly talkative. But then, believe it or not, this made stuff even harder, because then the prince didn't have an excuse for not _doing _anything about it. He actually didn't do anything for a really long time, which was kind of unawesome of him, but it is possible to get overloaded with awesome and have to take a break for a bit to stop yourself exploding, you know. But while he was being unawesome, the princess lost a war and had to work as a maid for this foreign king guy."

"What was the king like?"

"Well, the prince thought he was a total prat. Only interested in cultural crap and too scared of getting his fancy clothes dirty."

Hungary doesn't miss a beat. "What do _you _think he was like?"

Prussia lets out a long, slow breath. "I think the prince wasn't far wrong. He might have been a bit harsh, though. The king did have his merits, deeply hidden as they may have been."

There's a certain satisfaction in her voice as she says, "Go on, then."

"So the prince kept sneaking into this other boy's house to see the princess. He was a bit older then, though. Anyway, even after the princess almost _compromised his hiding place _by _actually letting the king play piano practically right on top of him_, which he never really forgave her for because _come on_, he finally did something."

There's another smile in Hungary's voice as she says, "And then what?"

"And then he kept visiting her, even after she got her own house, and they were best friends and maybe a little bit more. More than a little bit more. But then everything started to go wrong. He went to see the princess one day and she told him she had to marry this king. She was really upset and she was crying like anything, and... well, they did more than something. But then she left to go and get married, and the prince was sort of left hanging. He assumed that the princess didn't really love the king at all and he kept trying to see her to make her feel better - and maybe to make him feel better as well - but she'd changed. She wasn't the little princess any more. He got scared and thought she was unhappy, but when he tried to go and rescue her, she hit him."

Hungary is silent.

"And then," he continues, "it all went downhill. The prince had his kingdom dissolved and he had to go and work for his brother, who was prince of somewhere else. Don't ask me how it worked. But this new kingdom was going to war - which that king totally started, by the way - and that was alright because it helped the prince forget about the princess for a while. But then they lost the war and ended up practically starving to death. The prince had to skip dinner two nights in a row to afford to buy the princess a muffin when she came to visit. But the princess had lost the war as well - she divorced the king and came to the prince to see if he could make her feel better. But he wouldn't, because he knew she'd regret it just like she did the last time she tried to use the prince to take her mind off things.

"But then things started looking up. The prince and his brother started getting money again, his kingdom picked up and they even ended up getting the foreign king to work for them. They started another war, the princess joined his side and it was all going awesomely. But then," he sighs, "the prince realised that his brother's new leader was a psychopathic monster and utterly batshit, which he probably should've noticed earlier but he was too happy with being worth something again to care much for _how _it was happening. But by then it was too late - he and his brother were in too deep, and they were losing the war.

"Then the prince did something really stupid. Totally insane. He let his brother talk him into invading the princess's kingdom. She didn't take it well... I think she actually would've killed him if she didn't get dragged out of the room. But, while she wasn't speaking to him, they lost the war and got rescued from the ruins of the prince's city by this foreign emperor. But the emperor never gave them back. He took their kingdoms and twisted them into messed-up so-called 'utopias', controlled what they were allowed to own and see and wouldn't let them speak to anyone outside his little bubble of influence. And still the princess wouldn't talk to the prince. Hell, she wouldn't even look at him. I think... I think he might've lost it. He shouted at the princess when she came to make friends with him again, because all he'd wanted was his own kingdom again and now he'd realised that this puppet regime was worse than not having one. He started getting all screwed up, drinking and getting into fights, and he probably would've died if it wasn't for the princess."

"What did she do?" whispers Hungary.

"She rallied her kingdom against the evil emperor and tried to throw him out of her land. But it didn't work. He crushed the rebellion and she was seriously injured. She didn't tell the prince she was going to do this - he read it in the newspaper. I mean come on, the _newspaper_ - but he managed to get down to her kingdom in time to save her. And now he's doing his best to help her and staying with her until she's okay again, which is pretty awesome of him, to be honest, because her flat is a freezing cold dump - no offence - and he's _dying _for a Goddamn cigarette, but he probably owes her this much at least. And besides," he says, and sighs deeply, "that prince would be a total _dummkopf _if he hadn't figured out that he loves the princess by now. I mean, it's not like it isn't _glaringly obvious_ or anything." He pauses, catching his breath. "So how's that for a bedtime story, Liza? Reckon you can sleep now?"

"...Yeah," she says quietly. "I reckon I can."

"Night, then."

He rests his head back against the frame of her bed and shuts his eyes, trying to stop his mind from racing. That story might have helped her sleep, but now his throat is dry and his heart is pounding. _Come on, you were half unconscious a minute ago!_

Then Hungary says, "One more thing."

There's a rustle of sheets, a creak of bedsprings, then she's leaning right down off the mattress and pressing her lips to his. The kiss is short, butterfly-light, and one of the best he's ever had.

"Damn it, the princess loves him as well," she sighs. "She can be a bit of a bad-tempered _szuka _sometimes, but she really does." And then she's gone, lying back down into her pillows. "Thanks. For everything."

If the world had exploded right then and there, Prussia still wouldn't have been able to wipe the smile off his face. "Pleasure's all mine."

* * *

><p><strong>Thank you for reading yet another accidental chapter. ^_^ The bedtime story was never supposed to be there - Prussia totally just made it up off the top of his head. The ending was a surprise as well. The dialogue these two can come up with when you stick them both in a room together... I love them so much.<strong>

**Please leave a review!**


	22. Raising Morale

**1972 - Budapest, Hungary**

"Liza, where are we going?"

Hungary only laughs and tightens her grip on his hand, pulling him down the street behind her. Prussia has visited Budapest plenty of times since the revolution and has watched it not only put itself back together but become a city as modern and alive as it was possible to be in the Eastern Bloc. The same grey, empty streets he had carried her through all those years before were now bustling with people in a way that almost rivalled the countries on the other side of the curtain. Goulash Communism, they called it, and all Prussia knew was that it meant the boring and inconvenient queues for food everyone else had to suffer through were rare in Hungary's country and it had become a popular destination for tourists that couldn't get visas to leave the Eastern Bloc.

As her country steadily grew in strength and confidence, so did Hungary. The wounds he had bandaged for her had healed and the scars faded to barely more than pale lines on skin that had taken on a healthy new glow. Her dizzyingly green eyes sparkled and she was all smiles when he had arrived at her house - he spent almost as much time in Budapest as he did in East Berlin these days - and her new vitality had dazzled him, just like it had been doing for years now.

She's still paler than she had been and still a little thin, but she's finally starting to look like the arse-kicking, name-taking Hungary he knows and loves.

She stops abruptly outside a nondescript black door and Prussia almost walks into her. "Here it is," she grins, and slips inside, pulling him behind her.

A wave of music washes over him the moment he crosses the threshold, the _tap-tap-crash _of cymbals and _wah-wah_ of dampened trumpets weaving relaxed melodies through what he instantly recognises as a jazz club. It's a lot more opulent than his old favourite haunt in Berlin and lacks the feel of having been pulled together from whatever the owner could lay their hands on without arising suspicion - unlike Nazi Germany, jazz isn't banned in Communist Hungary. Frowned on, perhaps, but free to work its magic on the people without government interference.

"What do you think?" she asks, turning to beam at him expectantly. "You were right, you know. I did have some all along. I just had to go looking for them."

"Yeah, well... wait," he says, and then the realisation hits him. "You remember that?"

She nods. "I stumbled across this place and it all came back to me. What you said at Schloss Klessheim makes a lot more sense now."

He winces. "Let's not talk about Schloss Klessheim."

"Yeah, let's not. Come on." She takes his hand again and leads him to a table, polished mahogany with two deep suede chairs. It's in quite a good place; they have a perfect view of the musicians and the singer on the stage. This club, while still buzzing with people, seems to be a lot less cramped than the one he took her to, and he can't figure out whether it's the lack of customers or the far more spacious room.

"So, how have you been?" he asks her once they've settled back into their chairs. It's not just a conversational filler - ever since Russia began to adopt a more hands-off approach to governing the Eastern Bloc, Prussia has found himself more and more in demand back in Berlin. It's a reluctant sort of demand, as though they don't want him to feel like he's irreplaceable or anything, but the fact remains that he's their country whether they like it or not. East Germany still hasn't grown on him much, but it's nice to feel a little less pointless for once.

"Oh, you know," she says. "Been better, been worse."

"Missing being an empire?"

She considers this for a little longer than he expected. "I'm not, actually. I mean, I liked being fully independent, but having so many other states relying on you and draining your resources is far too stressful to do full-time. I don't know how Russia manages it."

"I don't think he is," says Prussia. "Brezhnev Doctrine and all that. He's finally letting us take care of the less important details as long as we don't try and do anything too radical. That practically screams 'you guys are too stressful'."

"How long do you think he'll be able to keep it up for?" she asks. Her tone is casual, like she's asking whether he thinks it'll rain tonight rather than how much longer they'll be forced to be communist puppet states.

"I don't know," he admits. The truth is, empires can go for hundreds of years. Hell, Britain started his empire in the seventeenth century and it's still around. But he's not going to say it out loud, of course. Like they need that kind of damper on the conversation.

"Well, in the meantime, I suppose I can't complain. I'm not doing too badly, am I? Well, in the scheme of things, anyway."

He fixes her with a determined stare. "Of course you can complain. Russia's forcing us into this against our will. You tried to revolt and he sent _tanks_. If anyone can complain, you can."

"But what's the point?" she sighs. "You said it yourself - last time I complained, Russia sent tanks."

"And now look at you!" he says, gesturing around at the jazz club. "This place isn't perfect, far from it, but it's a damn sight better than some places I could mention. And why do you think that is? Because Russia knows you're a force to be reckoned with."

She laughs and tries not to look flattered. "Maybe it was worth it, then, but I'm not doing it again. Look at my people. They're... well, if not happy, they're happier than they were. They're alright. I'm alright. I'm not risking their lives for more than that."

"Then don't risk their lives," he says. "It's like I said - Russia's stressed. He can't hold us forever. What we need now is silent revolutions. Peaceful resistance movements. Things he can't fight with violence without pissing off America. We can't just lie down and take it, Liza. You're _Magyarorszag_. Hell, I'm _Preussen_. We're too awesome for this."

"Did you come here to recruit me?" she smiles. "Because you're making it hard to say no."

"Not recruit," he says. "I'm just trying to raise morale."

"Well, consider it raised," she says, and climbs to her feet. The music has begun to speed up, increasing in volume and tempo, and people are beginning to rise from their seats. "Come on. Let's dance."

Two hours later, they spill out into the dusky streets of Budapest with aching feet. Dancing, while so much fun Prussia wonders why it isn't illegal in Russia's dull, grey world, is certainly tiring. Hungary turns to walk back to her flat, taking his hand, but he uses it to spin her around and take the other one as well. They stand there on the pavement, still breathing hard and bathed in the glow from the sun setting over the skyline, and he says, "Liza, I promise you-"

She sighs and interrupts him. "What is it with these places and you swearing your life away to me? Please, don't make any more promises."

"No, listen to me," he says. He needs to say this and she'll hear him out whether she wants to or not. "I promise you we'll survive this. Wait, more than that. I promise you we'll get out. I promise you we'll tear down this _verdammt _curtain. And this time I'm going to keep those promises. I-"

She places a finger on his lips and leans in close, and the words die in his throat. "Shh," she whispers. "I know you will."

And then the finger is replaced by her own lips. Right there in the middle of the street, she wraps her arms around his neck and kisses him long and slow. He responds almost automatically, placing his hands on her hips and kissing her back as waves of bliss cascade through his brain, flooding out all other sensory data but the flowery scent of her, the feel of every curve of her pressing against him and the taste of her mouth on his own.

She's perfect. She's thin and pale and her economy is nonexistant, her government is ineffectual and her media is controlled. Western countries shake their heads and thank their lucky stars they aren't her. She's living through a run of bad luck that's been following her for decades, collapsing her empire, taking her money, losing her wars and destroying her freedom. But in that moment, when they come up for air and pant through their smiles, she's _perfect_.

And that's what makes his mind up.

Without a word, he turns and strides away in the opposite direction, determination fuelling each step. She's better than this. _They're _better than this. If he's going to keep his promises this time, he's going to have to start now.

"Where are you going?" she asks, hurrying to keep up with him.

He reaches behind him and takes her hand. "You're coming too."

"Alright then, where are _we_ going?"

"To talk to someone who knows how to revolt. Actually, I should probably bring a peace offering... I haven't exactly been polite to him in the past. Got any dresses you don't mind parting with?"

"Um... I've got a pink one I was about to throw away. Knee-length, silver embroidery."

He grins. "Perfect."

* * *

><p><strong>Guess what's happening tomorrow? Go on, guess.<strong>

**Give up?**

**I'm getting an ACTUAL REAL-LIVE exchange student. From ACTUAL REAL-LIVE Japan. I'm so excited! I'll be able to practise Japanese ACTUALLY! In REAL LIFE!**

**On the dark side, however (why can't you say that? Why is 'on the bright side' alright but not that? I protest this light-based discrimination.) I might be too busy with helping her settle in to post a chapter tomorrow. I'll try my best and it'll probably be up, but if it isn't then I'll post it as soon as I can. I haven't died or given up or been abducted or anything. ^_^**

**Oh, and if you haven't yet, go and watch episode 12 of the World Series dub. Best. Episode. Ever. Prussia's letter has got to be the most awesome piece of historical literature ever written.**


	23. Crossing the Border

**ASDFLSKJFALDSKFJA I'M SO SORRY! I was doing so well at regular updates... but then all my free time got killed with fire. I'm totally going to have to stay up until about one in the morning translating Japanese homework because of this, but it was worth it.**

**Hopefully this chapter makes it up to you. ^_^**

* * *

><p><strong>1989 - The Austro-Hungarian border <strong>

The note is quick and simple, scrawled on lined paper torn from a book and posted to his East Berlin address.

_Gilbert,_

_Come to my western border, near Soprokohida, on August 19th. Trust me._

_Elizabeta_

Of course he comes. He has no car these days, but he does have just enough money saved up to take the train for most of the way and a taxi for the last few miles.

He doesn't know what he's expecting. He can't think what Hungary would want to surprise him with, let alone something that would need to be right on her border. The taxi drops him off at the end of the road and he walks the short distance to the fence, trying not to wonder what might be waiting for him.

There are people all along the fortifications. Normal people, not guards, most speaking Hungarian, but he can detect a few words of German in the mix. The air is so tense he could snap it, but it's also charged with excitement and anticipation, and he finds his own heartrate speeding up in expectation despite the fact that he still doesn't know what he's here for.

"Gil!" He spins; Hungary is striding towards him through the crowd, a wide smile on her face. "You came!"

"Well, duh," he says, as she reaches him and throws her arms around his neck. "Could you have posted a more enigmatic note? I could hardly wait." She lets go and stands back, still grinning. "What are you so smiley about? And what's supposed to be happening here?"

She takes a deep breath, as though trying to work out the story in her head. "Well..." she begins, "my foreign minister and Austria's foreign minister got talking, and-"

He raises an eyebrow. "Austria?"

"Yes, Austria. Do you want to hear this or not?"

"I'm all ears, Liza."

Try as she might, she still can't stop smiling. "Anyway, they came to an agreement. It was inspired by Poland, actually, and his solidarity. Oh, and speaking of Poland, he told me to give you a message when you came here."

"Yeah? What is it?"

"'Let's break him'."

Prussia grins. There was something about that nation. Ditzy and shallow as he may be, it was impossible to hold him down for long, even under the worst circumstances. God knows he'd tried. "And your plan is?"

"We," she says, "are going to have a picnic."

Well, that wasn't what he expected. "A picnic?"

"Not really a picnic. That's just what it's called. In two minutes' time, that border," she pointed at the fence, "is going to open for three hours."

He stares at her. "It's going to open?"

She can barely contain her excitement as she nods. "Yes! All these people are going to escape into Austria or West Germany, and there's nothing Russia can do about it!"

Perhaps it's his excitement bubbling over, or perhaps his mind is just too numb with surprise to control his actions, but before he knows what he's doing, he's grasped Hungary's upper arms, pulled her towards him and kissed her. "Aren't the border guards going to stop them?" he asks, breathless, once they separate.

"They said they would," she says, "but I've talked to them. They won't interfere."

"You're amazing." What he meant to only think tumbles out of his mouth before he can stop it, but he's past caring. She smiles even harder and punches him playfully on the arm.

The atmosphere of the crowd tenses. The noise level drops sharply as everyone turns to watch the border guards. Prussia holds his breath. Beside him, Hungary is as stiff as a board.

And then everyone is surging forwards with shocked laughs and shouts of joy. The guards stand and watch as people take their first footstep - perhaps the first even in their lives - out of the Eastern Bloc. In one step, they cross from communist to capitalist, oppressed to free. Prussia has never been so happy to see people fleeing from his country, never been so eager to watch them run for the sanctuary of West and Austria.

"Come on," says Hungary, and then she's taking his hand and pulling him towards the gate.

They stop on the border, toeing the unseen line between Austria and Hungary as more people pass on either side of them.

One step ahead of him is Austria's turf. Neutral ground. No guards, no secret police, no Russia breathing down his neck.

One step and he's free.

"On three," says Hungary, slightly breathless. "One..."

"Now!" he shouts, and pulls her forwards at a run. She shrieks with giddy laughter as they race across the border, past the guards, and into the Western Bloc.

They stop once the gate is well behind them, clinging to each other and laughing in disbelief. Where they stand now, barely thirty feet from where they stood only seconds ago, is out of Russia's reach. In those few steps, they escaped him and his Warsaw Pact and his Eastern Bloc. It's not the end. They're still Hungary and East Germany and they're still communist satellite states and just crossing a border won't change that, but that doesn't dampen their joy and relief as they watch their people flee to a place they know they'll be safe. Nothing could dampen that.

"Hungary! Prussia!"

He recognises that voice, with its proper pronunciation and clipped syllables, and looks around for its source. Austria is striding towards them through the crowds, what looks like a picnic basket slung over his arm and his face creased with worry that eases ever so slightly as he sees them.

Prussia makes him a bow. "The one and only."

Hungary simply wraps her arms around his neck and hugs him, fairly sobbing into the shoulder of his suit. Of course he's wearing a suit, notes Prussia. The fact that everyone else in a ten-mile radius is wearing jeans and T-shirts never did seem to worry him. He wraps his picnic-basket-laden arms around her and, by the time they separate, they're both more than a little tearful.

For some reason, this tear-stained reunion doesn't get on his nerves. He honestly doesn't have any idea why - just a few years ago he'd be itching to punch Austria's lights out. But for God's sake, he's out of the Eastern Bloc and he hasn't seen Austria in so long and right now the only thing he can think to dislike him for is not coming to their rescue sooner.

He should say something. Austria's attention is on him now and like hell he's going to hug him, but the silence is in danger of getting awkward and the lump in his throat is getting in the way of any words that he might be able to string together. In the end, all he manages to say is, "I'll buy you new piano strings."

Austria looks confused for a moment, then bursts out laughing. And before he knows it, Prussia is laughing too, and there's something that's half-grapple and half-hug and all emotional gratitude that will never be spoken of again.

"Here," says Austria, holding out the basket. "This _is _supposed to be a picnic, after all. I thought we might as well adhere to tradition."

If this is Austria's idea of adhering to tradition, Prussia thinks as he opens the lid, then he needs to start coming to more Austrian picnics. Inside the basket is a bottle of expensive-looking wine, a folder full of papers, a packet of cigarettes and a hefty wad of Deutschemarks.

"The wine is a gift," he said, somewhat awkwardly. "I know you don't get much in the way of luxury behind the Curtain, so I thought you might like it."

He isn't half right. He's never been much of a wine drinker, but the best alcohol he's had in years is vodka, and that knocks you out before you get a chance to enjoy it properly. Hungary obviously thinks so too, as she hugs him for the second time and he pats her on the back in a strange kind of happy embarrassment.

"I didn't know if you'd be coming," he admits, turning to Prussia once Hungary has let go, "but I put these in just in case. It's not much of a present. I just thought you might appreciate it."

Prussia grins at him. "Thanks."

There's a moment of silence. Austria and Hungary look at each other, then at him. He glances between them, suddenly on the defensive. "What?"

"Aren't you going to smoke them?" asks Hungary. "You can't have had one in ages. You don't even smell like smoke."

"I quit."

Austria's mouth opens slightly. "But... why? Since when? _How_? I don't think I've seen you without a cigarette since the Great War."

He shrugs. "Since Hungary had her revolution and I had to stay with her for weeks on end. There weren't any in her flat and I wasn't about to leave to buy some, then by the time she was well enough for me to leave I didn't really want them any more. So I just figured I'd stop. They're alright, but needing them all the time is really inconvenient and they start getting expensive after a while."

Hungary is staring at him with a combination of disbelief and admiration. "So that's why you looked like death the whole time you were in my flat... You just went cold turkey? For me?"

He opens his mouth to say something self-deprecating, then realises that there's really nothing but awesomeness right there and grins. "Yeah, I guess I did."

"Well," says Austria, still a little nonplussed, "perhaps these will make up for it. They're travel papers authorising you to cross the border into West Germany and live there until the wall comes down. The Deutschemarks should be enough for travel fares. Elizabeta, your papers let you stay with me in Vienna."

Hungary lifts hers out of the picnic basket and stares at them. Passport, visa, official documents in both German and Hungarian stamped and signed and perfectly in order. His are similar, but all in German and with extra authorisation for crossing the border into West Germany. He counts the Deutschemarks and whistles, wondering exactly when he started to deserve this kind of generosity from Austria of all people.

"Roderich..." breathes Hungary. "You didn't have to..."

"I wanted to. You don't have to live there. Revolution's coming, Liza. The world's changing. The Curtain will fall in months, if not weeks. But until then, I'd be honoured to let you use my spare bedroom."

She swallows thickly, leafing through the papers with shaking hands. Then she grits her teeth and places them back in the picnic basket. "I'd love to, you know I would, but I can't. I'm sorry. These people," she gestures to the crowds, dwindling now but still moving steadily past them, "they're only the tiniest fraction of my population. The rest of them are still back there. I can't abandon them."

Austria nods, as though he expected this but is still sad to hear it. "I understand."

Prussia is still staring at his documents, still amazed and a tiny bit touched, although he'd never admit it. He could stay in the Western Bloc - all the authorisation is here. He never has to go back to his awful East Berlin flat again. He could see West again.

"Prussia?" Austria is looking at him, waiting for a response. "You know Germany's policy regarding you. East German citizens are automatically West German citizens as well. You can go and live with him. He's been... He'd be pleased to see you."

It feels as though he's tearing away a piece of his own soul, willingly leaving his greatest hopes and dreams behind, betraying the Prussia who'd wished for so many decades of a day when he'd escape his hole of a country and see his brother again, but he places the documents back in the picnic basket on top of Hungary's. His voice is dangerously choked as he says, "I've never been East Germany. Not like Russia wanted. I'm not their country, but they're my people, and they're still trapped back there. I... I can't escape without them."

Austria nods again and closes the basket.

"But Austria," he says quickly, "I know I don't deserve it, but could you do me a favour?"

"Yes?"

"Look after them for me. Make sure they get to West's safely. Please."

"Of course," he says. "I'll do everything I can for them."

Prussia swallows hard. "Thanks, specs."

Austria straightens his glasses, the hint of a smile tugging at his lips. "Don't mention it."

Heat is beginning to well up in his eyes, and a glance to his side shows that tears are already rolling freely down Hungary's cheeks. Next to staying here and crying in front of Austria, he'd choose willingly crossing back into an oppressive communist regime any day. "We should go," he says, and both of them understand.

Prussia and Hungary stand on the border between East and West, watching the last of the escapees slip through the gate. A glance over his shoulder shows Austria still standing there holding the picnic basket, a bittersweet combination of sadness and hope on his face.

On one, Prussia takes a deep breath.

On two, Hungary's fingers lace with his.

On three, they step across the border and disappear back through the Iron Curtain.


	24. The Wall

**1989 - Berlin, Germany**

It's happening.

He always knew it would, but still. It's_ happening_.

For decades now this wall's been here, a scar slashing across the middle of the city that was his, then his brother's, and now both of theirs and neither. But today marks the end of that. He can feel it.

In front of him, crowds are harassing the guards who can't lift a finger to stop them. He recognises the emotion in the air, the mood of the crowd; he's felt it before. It's exactly the same as the day of the picnic.

He can't quite identify what he's feeling right now. He feels full, so full of feeling that he might burst. Emotion is trying to force his way out of his throat in something that isn't quite sound and isn't quite tears. There's certainly happiness in the mix that's rooting him to the spot, watching as the events play out in front of his eyes. Happiness, relief and triumph. This time, he kept his promises to Hungary. He's knocking down the wall. He's finally doing this. He's going to be free. Russia has no more power over him. It's only a matter of time until they draw back the Iron Curtain once and for all. He wishes he could go back in time and tell past Prussia, the Prussia that gave up hope, that sat and cried in Russia's manor, that pushed Hungary away and fought to feel alive, that this moment would come. That he would live to see the other side.

This does mean, of course, that he won't be a country any more. Reunified Germany will, of course, belong to Germany and not to Prussia. He's truly gone now, nothing more than words and pictures in history books. At first he wasn't sure how he felt about that, but now he knows, truly and undoubtedly. Not being a country is better than being a country that you aren't, and anything is better than being East Germany.

People are streaming through the checkpoint, laughing and shouting as they're welcomed by West Germans laden with gifts. The guards stand and watch, not stopping them, perhaps not wanting to. None of their superiors wanted to be branded by history as the one who gave the orders to gun down civilians, and short of gunning them down, there's nothing that will stop them now. Not now they have rebellion in their minds and freedom in their sights.

They're jumping onto the wall now, dancing on the barrier that used to be so impenetrable. As though in a dream, Prussia follows them. It's not an easy climb - this wall was built to stop people doing exactly what he's doing now, after all - but he has height on his side and manages to haul himself up on top of the concrete wall.

He can see both sides of Berlin from up here. Every inch of space is crowded with people, and that includes the wall itself. He squints over their heads, trying to spot the one he's looking for. But there are a lot of blond people in West Germany.

As he's scanning the crowd, a voice shouts, "Hey, give me a hand, would you?"

He looks down; there's a hand by his feet, grasping at the top of the wall. He takes it and pulls, and West scrambles up onto the wall.

People with blond hair may have blended in, but those with white stood out.

For a long moment, East and West Germany stand on top of the Berlin Wall and stare at each other. For the first time in forty-four years, they see each other properly, face to face, close enough to touch.

Prussia's mind is blank and racing at the same time. He wants to say something profound, something to mark the monumental occasion, but he can't seem to remember how to speak. West just stands there, his mouth half-open as though teetering on the verge of speech. A mutual understanding passes between them. Speaking is pointless. There just aren't any words.

It takes him a moment to notice the tears sneaking their way down his face. He wipes them away with his sleeve. Historic moments like these are supposed to be greeted with great speeches and grand gestures, not bursting into tears and blubbering like a baby. That's just off-the-charts levels of unawesome.

"'S the dust," he sniffs, rubbing at his eyes. "From the wall."

West nods, and understands. His own eyes are looking ever so slightly red. "_Ja_," he says, blinking hard. "Dust."

He can't quite remember how he got there, but one moment he's standing in front of his brother and the next they have their arms wrapped around each other so tightly they're in danger of merging physically rather than just politically.

As they separate, both surreptitiously wiping their eyes and pretending not to notice the other doing the same, the giant grey slab that once marked the end of the world now seems hardly even an obstacle and the whole planet stretches out beyond it. He can go wherever he likes now. The thought makes his head spin - he'd almost forgotten what it was like to be free. He could go to Africa, or Asia, anywhere he wanted, and no-one would try to stop him. He could patch things up with France and Spain. He could visit America and thank him for making life so difficult for Russia, a feat which more than made up for beating him in both world wars.

But there's going to be plenty of time for that later.

"Come on," says Germany, and Prussia can't remember the last time he saw him smile like that, relief and triumph and calm, contented warmth all rolled into one. "Let's go home."

As Prussia's feet hit West German ground for the first time in four decades, the sound of cheering follows them through the crowd.


	25. What Comes Next

**The Japanese exchange student staying with us brought me a Hetalia poster with the Axis Powers (and Prussia) on it, so now I have the Axis and the Allies on my wall. ^_^ It also means I have Prussia watching me write this, which makes it infinitely more awesome and only a little bit awkward.**

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><p><strong>1990 - Berlin, Germany<strong>

Germany's house was hardly a mansion, but Prussia couldn't help but be impressed by it every time he crossed the threshold. He had furniture that wasn't old, cheap and weatherbeaten. There were decorations - actual decorations - of the sort that Russia would never have allowed. The fridge was well-stocked and the kitchen well-equipped. The roof was strong, sturdy and didn't look like it would ever start to leak, and the heating system worked reliably. He even had a television.

Back in his glory days, he would've considered it rather simple. But now, it's a palace.

He lives here now, sleeping in Germany's spare bedroom. He's done rather well for himself after the war and can afford to buy food for two. Prussia doesn't know what's become of his old house and he doesn't care to find out. That place was never his anyway; it had always been Russia's and both of them knew it. Even though this house is Germany's, he still feels more at home here than he has in decades.

There is a certain amount of boredom involved with living here. He has no country to run and nothing to do but wait around until Germany gets home in the afternoon. As much as he enjoys lying around on the couch, watching television and raiding the fridge, he knows it'll drive him mad after a while. He hasn't told his brother yet, but he's thinking of getting a job. Somewhere awesome, of course - the great Prussia would never be found working at a fast food joint - but somewhere that gives him something to do with himself and perhaps some money to go towards food and bills.

_Bills... Look at me, thinking like an adult. I'll start wearing glasses and reading the newspaper next, just wait. But still, I did avoid growing up for - how long's it been now? - at least a thousand years, anyway. That's got to be some sort of record._

Deep down, he knows he still hasn't. But he's not doing too badly. Old Fritz would be proud.

The sound of knocking rattling in the front door makes him sit up. Germany's home. Perhaps the most exciting thing to happen all day, although lunchtime does come in a close second. But why isn't he using his keys? Maybe he lost them. It's not like anyone else has any reason to come here.

He stands up, heads down the hallway to the front door and, after a moment of searching, finds the keys on the counter and turns them in the lock.

Hungary is standing on the threshold. She's dressed in a simple but warm and sturdy coat and the wind is blowing her hair around her shoulders. He can't help but notice how much better she looks, even while damp and cold and shivering. There's more colour to her face and shine to her hair, and her eyes light up when she sees him.

"Don't just stand there," he grins, stepping back to let her pass. "It's bloody freezing."

"I know," she says, taking her coat off and hanging it up before he can do it for her. "I only just got some time off. I've been run off my feet lately."

"Lucky you," he says. It's not resentful, but it's not far from it.

She follows him back down the hall to the living room. "You really are bored, aren't you?"

Prussia shrugs. "A little," he says, and sits down on the couch, gesturing for her to sit next to him. "Look, I was thinking of getting a job. Chipping in with the household expenses and all that."

She takes a seat and raises an eyebrow. "You? Get a job?"

"Yep," he nods.

"That's... uncharacteristically mature of you," she says slowly. "I'm impressed."

Prussia folds his arms behind his head and leans back into the cushions. "I try. Look, do you have a space program yet? Or some sort of secret service? Because I need a job suited to me. I don't want to be overqualified in the awesomeness department, if you know what I mean."

She sighs, but can't quite suppress a grin. "I'll have to get back to you on that one."

"You do that, Liza. My talents are wasted just lying around here."

She looks as though she's about to ask which talents exactly, but stops herself. "I've been meaning to ask you..." she says slowly, choosing her words, "how are you?"

"Awesome as ever, why?"

"No, seriously. How are you? I mean... since East Germany was dissolved."

"Fine."

"But you aren't a country any more."

"Nope."

"...Are you alright with that?"

Prussia sighs and crosses his arms in an attempt at mock-exasperation, but his smile ruins it. "Remember when you first became a country and everyone else just chucked it in and retired? Saxony, Bavaria, that lot?"

That hadn't been that long ago, if you went by country lifespans rather than human ones. None of the German countries had been able to figure out where the little nation found half-starved and unconscious in the forest represented, and his memory loss made it no easier. When they had finally realised what he was - all of them and none of them - they knew what it meant. This was a younger incarnation of them, a guarantee of both survival and death. They named him Ludwig and trained him to be their successor, and when he was ready almost every one of them had retired. Prussia hasn't visited them since. He doesn't know if they're dead or alive or even still immortal, but he remembers them all as clearly as the most sober of days.

"Yeah," she says, "why?"

"I promised Brandenburg I'd look after Germany," he explains. "Keep him out of trouble. Make sure he didn't start any major world wars or anything."

Hungary bites her lip.

Prussia grins. "I know. So the second time around, I intend to keep that promise."

"So he's going to have to keep you around as an advisor?"

"Uh-huh. He's not getting rid of me that easily."

"More advice from you. He'll be thrilled."

"He'll never admit it," says Prussia, "but he doesn't mind. I'm not that bad."

"No," she says, leaning back into the cushions only inches away from him. He can feel her warmth, smell the flowery scent of her hair. "You're not."

He drapes an arm around her shoulders and she snuggles into him. Neither of them speak. There is a silent sigh of relief in the air, a shared feeling of contentedness. For the first time in almost a century, everything is beginning to go right again. They don't have wars to worry about or oppressive regimes to fight. There is no reason why they can't just stay like that forever, lying quiet and close on the couch, Hungary's heartbeat thumping gently against his chest.

"You know what comes next," she says eventually. Her voice is quiet, almost a whisper. She's close enough to not need to speak louder.

He nods. "Yeah."

"I have a country to rebuild. You have some sorting out to do."

"It's best if we can concentrate on that," he says. He knew this was coming before she even knocked on the door. He's made his peace with it.

"When everything's alright again. When it's back to how it was."

"Maybe then."

She smiles and rests her head against his shoulder. "Maybe then."


	26. Always Have, Always Will

For anyone wondering, the new chapter I just uploaded is number sixteen.

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><p><strong>2000 - New York, USA<strong>

Prussia chews the end of his pencil, ignoring the taste of graphite on his tongue, and wonders why he tries so hard to convince Germany to let him come to world meetings. They're so _dull_. All anyone ever does is drone on about finance and industry and politics and, whenever anything vaguely interesting wobbles along and raises its head, they pounce on it and argue it pointlessly into the ground until all courses of action have been ruled out. He knows he isn't the only one who feels this way; across the room, America is doodling absentmindedly in his notebook, Spain is staring vacantly out of the window and Italy appears to have dozed off, his head in his arms, drooling all over his notes.

But he comes, even though it bores the hell out of him. He likes to know what's going on, even if most of it is stupid and he can't do anything about it even if it isn't. It's something to get him out of the house, to keep him entertained, give him something to think about. And, by sitting and watching his brother make a speech to the assembled nations, he's keeping an eye on him. He's keeping his promise to Brandenburg.

And, as Germany drones on about nothing of interest - at least, not to Prussia - he is keeping himself well entertained. He found a packet of elastic bands in Germany's bag at the beginning of the meeting and has been happily playing with them for the last half an hour. He holds one up, pulls it back, takes aim... a muffled _twang_, and the elastic band flies across the room to hit Austria squarely on the back of the head.

When the other nation turns around, looking frustratedly for the source of all these sudden blows to the head, Prussia is writing in his notebook, his face a picture of concentration.

"In conclusion," says Germany, consulting his notes, "the decade following the political reunification of East and West Germany has been an overwhelming success for both the German people and Europe as a whole. The collapse of the Eastern Bloc has seen steadily rising living standards, growing industries and strengthening economies in Central and Eastern Europe and, if current trends continue, we have every reason to believe that this continent might turn out alright after all."

The assembled nations applaud - Italy jerks back into consciousness with a surprised "ve!" - and Germany takes his seat next to Prussia, who claps him on the back.

"Awesome speech, West."

"Thanks," says Germany, tucking his palm cards back into his bag. "My analysts really went all out on... hey, have you seen my elastic bands?"

"Nope," he says, but his attention is drawn elsewhere before he can hide them. Hungary is sitting across the room from them and trying hard to catch his eye. He raises an eyebrow in silent question, but she only smiles and goes back to drawing in her notebook.

"_We have every reason to believe that this continent might turn out alright after all."_

Inspiration strikes. Prussia tears a piece of paper from his book and scribbles 'meet me in the hallway in five minutes', then folds it three times and writes 'to Hungary - read and you die' on the front. "Oi, West," he says, elbowing Germany and handing him the paper. "Pass this on, would you?"

He watches the note as it makes its way down the row, heading across the room to where Hungary is sitting, her pen still scribbling away. Sweden, Finland, Denmark, Belgium, Spain, Greece, and finally Japan, who taps Hungary on the shoulder and passes her the note. She unfolds it and scans the message, squinting to make out his handwriting, then meets his waiting eye. As he watches, she smiles and nods once.

Five minutes later, Prussia stands in the hallway as Hungary slips through the meeting room door, trying not to let it slam shut behind her. They don't need to draw attention to themselves. She steps across the corridor towards him and Prussia's heart attempts to jump ship. He doesn't know what to say. What was he thinking, asking her to meet him alone like this? It was an impulse, a spur of the moment decision, and, he decides, a stupid one at that.

Hungary smoothes her skirt and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, still smiling nervously. "I liked Germany's speech," she says. "Very well-researched. It's good to know we're on the right track."

He nods. "It's amazing that Europe can pick itself up like this after everything that went down last century." He takes a deep breath. _Lord, give me strength. As much as you can spare. I need a metric crapton of it right now._ "And I was thinking... maybe..."

"Maybe then is now," she finishes.

"We're back on our feet."

"There's nothing stopping us."

"Nothing ever stopped us," he grins. "Not us."

"No," she smiles back. "Not us."

He's at a loss to explain how it happened, but somehow they seemed to have drifted closer and closer as they spoke until their faces were inches apart. It only takes him a fraction of a second to close the gap and kiss her. For a moment, the world seems to melt away. It's harmony, unity, two becoming one, and their own personal dividing wall collapses as she overwhelms every sense he has, filling his blank mind with a sense of bliss, pure and complete.

She breaks away, arms still around his neck, and places a finger on his lips. "On one condition."

He's not disappointed. Nothing could disappoint him right now. His happiness is unshakable, undefeatable. "Oh yeah?"

There's a slightly mischievous element to her grin as she says, "Tell me you love me."

A memory almost a hundred years old swims to the forefront of his mind. A memory made in far grimmer times, when they were on the brink of ruin and neither of them were entirely sane. Back then, they had been kissing to forget. To lock away their troubles, if only for a little while, and drown in each other until they could think of nothing else. But now it's different. There's nothing to hide from now, nothing to lock away. The world is doing alright, as far as these things go, and he knows that if he says it now, he'd better mean it.

So Prussia looks her straight in the eye and says, with as much solemnity as he can muster, "Hungary, I love you. Always have, always will."

"Same to you," she says, and kisses him.

_Dear God,_

_I don't know what I've done to deserve this. I've tried my best to do your will over the centuries, but I know that hasn't always worked out how either of us intended it to. But if I haven't been your best subject, I've at least been your most entertaining, right? That has to count for something._

_I don't know what made you decide to give me someone like her, but all I can say is thank you. I don't intend to leave this earth for a long time yet, so perhaps we can start over, you and I? I can't promise to be perfect, but I can promise to try. And in the meantime, I'll treat her like an angel. Okay, not an angel - she'd probably punch me in the face - but maybe a seraphim. They're pretty ass-kicking, right? I'll treat her like a seraphim, because losing my country, my house, my title... none of that matters to me any more. As long as I have her, I have everything I want._

_I don't know what I did to deserve her, God, but thank you._

_Thank you so much._

_From Prussia with love._

_P.S. I'm awesome!_

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><p>And that, my dear readers, is the end.<p>

If you've read all of this then THANK YOU! I can't hug you in person so please just take a moment to imagine it for me. Go ahead and get yourself a biscuit or something. You deserve it. You are a wonderful person and I love you.

This is technically the last chapter but I might still slot extras in here and there when I think the story's missing something, so don't tune out yet. (Also because I'm way too invested in this fic and I just can't quite seem to detach myself yet.)

So yeah. Thank you, and please leave a review if you haven't already. I'd really appreciate it. Bye!


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